


The End Days- Draft 1

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Series: The End Days- Draft 1 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Also Post-Canon in a way, Alternate Universe- Started Off as Canon Compliant and then Wasn't, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Differences, Don't Judge Me, Genderfluid Lucina, Harm to Minors, Internalized racism, Multi, Pre-Canon, Sadness, Theological Themes, Too Many OCs, Various Not-Cis Characters, Written for NaNoWriMo, also dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 61,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world began when Lucina was twelve and the Mark of the Grimleal showed up in her little brother's right eye. Which wouldn't have been so bad if the world had finished ending on that day, but it didn't. Eight years later, Lucina and her friends meet her younger brother Marcus once more, though he's changed quite a bit at this point. But what does Marcus really know, and just how much is he really planning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreseer

**Author's Note:**

> So I know it says I wrote this for NaNo but honestly I can't finish it in the allotted time so to make wordcount i copypasted the word 'egg' until I reached 50k. But I'll keep writing and posting chapters, and hopefully by the end of February I'll have a finished edition! In the meantime, I'm taking a break. I deserve it, tbh.
> 
> Cover credit goes to me, because I drew it. Major thanks to tumblr users missinginmayhem (MissingInMayhem on ao3) and homesmuck for betareading for me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lucina," Robin mumbled, her voice thick. "What did you see?"
> 
> Lucina shook her head, burying her face in her mother's coat, breathing in the smell of ink and wax candles and just a little bit of rose like it was the last chance she'd have. And Marcus kept crying, and the sticky June heat felt cruel on her skin.

* * *

The world had ended in the summer— a sticky day in June where the sky was a milky shade of pale gray around the horizon and the sun was hiding behind gauzy clouds. The twelfth of June was the date, a date that had forever etched itself in Lucina's memory, that no amount of blocking could forget. It was seared there, permanent as an old tattoo: _June 12th, 1430._  
  
The Shepherds were marching home again, which was always cause for excitement, but Lucina somehow didn't feel like celebrating. She'd been practicing, striking at sandbags with a wooden sword, while Marcus and Owain watched and ate from a bowl of frozen strawberries under the big tree in the courtyard.  
  
"Luci, think I can climb up there?" Marcus asked, tilting his little head curiously and pointing to the tree branches with a red-stained little finger. Lucina had stopped, looked at him— _it was too high for him, even if she gave him a boost; he was too heavy for the branches he'd surely try to climb; he'd fall and break his arm and cry for hours—_  
  
"It's too hot to climb," Owain said for her, grabbing another strawberry. "And it's too high, you'd fall."  
  
Marcus frowned. "Yeah, that's true. I guess not, then."  
  
Lucina just went back to practicing. Those thoughts happened from time to time— she'd look at something and she'd see what was about to happen up to minutes before it did. When she was younger, it wasn't nearly so controlled by circumstance. But if someone walked by carrying a stack of books, she'd see them trip over a knot in the rug and drop them, scattering them over the floor, and a second later, it would. She'd learned to stop little accidents like that before they happened, by offering to take a few of the books, or just calling out to them to be careful. She was getting much more adept at controlling when they happened.  
  
Someone yelled out— _They're here!—_ and the words sent a wave of activity through what seemed to be the whole castle. Marcus's little head snapped up, grinning in glee, and Owain's a second later. Someone called out that the Shepherds were back, and an instant later, Marcus and Owain were running up the stairs to the high garden wall, peering over the ledge in excitement.  
  
"Luci, come on, they're here!" Marcus called. "Luci! Luci!"  
  
Lucina felt her blood turn to ice. Marcus was grinning, Owain leaning halfway out over the wall with a hand shielding his eyes, and Lucina could see that, but— _the Shepherds were marching back to the castle with the battle won but the cost too high to celebrate; Aunt Lissa held the Falchion in its rarely-used sheath like a lifeline with tears staining her cheeks and dotting the leather; her father was in a box and her mother was nowhere to found; there was no Ylisse and no Naga and nothing could ever be good again because they were_ gone _and her eye hurt oh gods her eye hurt so much her eye hurt her heart hurt her stomach hurt everything hurt—_  
  
Without realizing, she staggered back like she'd been punched, tears running down her cheeks, falling to her knees on the ground, her training sword landing with a dull thud on the durt.  
  
"Luci?" Marcus called again, frowning, worry creasing his fair little face, sprinkled just a little with fine freckles like stars in the night sky— but oh, gods, Lucina couldn't hear anything but blood rushing in her ears if she tried.  
  
Owain pulled himself back onto the garden wall and nudged Marcus, mumbling something Lucina couldn't hear.  
  
"You're a dirty liar, Owain!" Marcus shouted a second later, little voice breaking. She heard the scuffing of Owain's shoes on the stone; Marcus had shoved him with his chubby little arms. "That's n-not funny, a-and you're a liar! L-Luci, tell him h-he's not funny! Lucina!"  
  
"Oh, gods," Lucina whispered, voice quavering. "Oh, gods, I knew it."  
  
Owain looked lost, as any eight-year-old would in this situation— his mother and father were alive, his mother was crying and there was dried blood on her dress and crusted on her axe but at least she was still _alive_ — but his uncle was dead and his aunt was gone and his cousins were crying and he didn't know what to do. Was this how a hero's journey began? Was this how it happened in the stories?  
  
"L-Luci?" Marcus sounded closer then, whimpering as he crouched next to Lucina. "L-Luci, is… i-is mama still there? C-can you… can you s-see her? L-Luci?"  
  
Lucina dug her fingers into her hair, trying to clamp out the painful ache stemming from her left eye. "I don't— gods, I can't see anything— damn it!"  
  
She struck the soft dirt with her leather-gloved fist then, wishing she could reach into her head and pull out the blasted eye with the Brand, live in ignorance for the rest of her life because what good was a blessing from a god that had taken her parents from her?  
  
Marcus had his tiny hands on her arm, trying to shake her out of her current state because Lucina was his big sister and if she was this upset, then it was the end of the world.  
  
Lucina crushed him in a hug then, but even she didn't know that she wouldn't get to do that again for a long, long time.  
  
"Marcus!" Owain called, and Lucina was suddenly aware of footsteps pounding on the garden grass. Both Lucina and Marcus looked up, and the anvil crushing Lucina's skinny chest was lifted seeing her mother running towards them, feeling her collapse to her knees and pull them both into a hug, but her mother was crying and she knew it was because father was dead, he was dead and nothing would ever really be the same again and—  
  
_and she had been the one to kill him._  
  
Lucina's eyes snapped wide open at the thought, and though she felt horrible for even thinking it, she somehow had a crushing sense that it was true. She turned her head, looking up at her mother's face— and she knew it was.  
  
Marcus was sobbing, his cries somehow more intense than they were if he scraped his knee or had a bad dream— the horrible, heartbroken sobbing of someone who felt like they would never truly be happy again. Lucina's gut twisted listening to it, as if she were going to start crying too, but her throat was too dry to do anything but sit there under a crushing sense of failiure and loneliness that she'd never really be able to explain.  
  
"Lucina," Robin mumbled, her voice thick. "What did you see?"  
  
Lucina shook her head, burying her face in her mother's coat, breathing in the smell of ink and wax candles and just a little bit of rose like it was the last chance she'd have. And Marcus kept crying, and the sticky June heat felt cruel on her skin.  
  
"M-mama," Marcus hiccuped. "I'm scared."  
  
Lucina looked at him, his gray eyes big and puffy and full of tears, with long eyelashes they'd both gotten from their mother, and she saw her mother looking at his right eye, specifically— with one look, Lucina saw why.  
  
It was the cruelest of parallels. Plain as day, Grima had given her brother the Mark, the emblem of the Grimleal just a shade lighter than his irises, twined perfeclty around his inky pupil like it had been there forever.  
  
"Lucina," Robin said again. "What did you see?"  
  
And Lucina had to take a breath before she answered.  
  
"I saw the world," she said. "And I saw how it ends."


	2. Ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucina hated seeing all her companions stretched tight as bowstrings, with shadows under their eyes and dirt on their faces and terse words exchanged about who might die next. Moreover, she hated herself for not being able to prevent it, despite knowing there wasn't anything she could've done.
> 
> Lucina knew she looked like that, too, but she hadn't had the chance to look in a decent mirror in months.

They called that day the first of the End Days, and it'd since earned its ominous name. Their world had not ended with chaos and fire, not with a freeze that would last a century. It had ended on the twelfth of June, 1430, and all that came after could only be a mockery of what life had once been. She had to wonder, sometimes, what it was she and her friends did to deserve it.  
  
That night in Plegia was a bright one, lit up by a huge full moon and too many stars to count, but weaving through the streets of a once-grand capital city, dodging Risen and the odd remaining Grimleal, felt as dark as if the sky were the same inky-black as the Fell Dragon's scales. Oddly, it was quiet— no enemies were around, living or otherwise. Ordinarily that would be a sign that perhaps this was one of the few safe zones left, or as safe as safe could get those days, but the silence, and its proximity to Grima, just served to make Lucina uneasy.  
  
Of course, it wasn't like _that_ was difficult to do. As the leader of her army (which wasn't _really_ an army, but Owain had started calling their group 'Lucina's Army' very shortly after she made the pledge to lead them and the name stuck), she had to look out for them, make sure she wasn't leading them straight into a slaughter. Anyone would say she was born to lead, with her father's charisma and passion, and her mother's patience and wisdom. Lucina had learned early that everyone expected her to be better than both of them, despite contradicting traits— the stubborn Ylissean pride of her father, for instance, often came into conflict with her mother's ways of manipulating situations into ones that didn't need to be rammed through by brute force. Becoming an unofficial Exalt at the age of sixteen had very soon slapped Lucina in the face with the reality that she wouldn't be able to be everything both of her parents were, but graciously, it also told her what she really _did_ need to do if they may have some shred of a chance to succeed.  
  
Now, a shred of a chance wasn't particularly good. But if there was one thing Lucina had learned from her Aunt Lissa, it was that a shred of a chance could be all they needed to turn the tide of an age. (The thought entertained her that, when they saved the world and the stories were turned into history books, those would be remembered as the brave Princess Lissa's final words, when Lucina knew that they'd actually been _"Hey! I just polished that!"_ It was still very in-character for her aunt, of course, but significantly less climactic.)  
  
If Lucina was to save her future, the hope that still remained was what she had to cling to— she had sworn four years ago, before the ruined castle of Ylisse, that she would do as her father had done, and lead an army of friends to victory. At the time, the flame of hope burned bright, though as days worn on to weeks and months and years, it dimmed to charred embers where a hearth had once been. Her friends grew taller and stronger in a battle to survive what the ruined world threw at them. Their faces had darkened from what had once been there; their hands held callouses where once there was soft skin. Armor became synonymous with a blanket, weapons with the candles at night that kept the monsters at bay. But now the monsters were real, and had swallowed up the world they'd known.  
  
Lucina was fairly sure it'd been the eighteenth of June when things began to change. First it seemed like the sun had dimmed or the sky had darkened, like sudden changes in the weather happened more often than they sometimes did. The hailstorms started in July, stretching for weeks at a time before a period of unbearable heat where it seemed the sun barely went down at all. Forests began catching fire for seemingly no reason, the oases in the deserts dried up, wells and canals ran dry. There were storms so dark, the August sky went black came without warning, passed overhead with lightning that lit up the sky in artificial day. Aunt Lissa was the Exalt then, though an Exalt that sprinted through hallways with an axe on her back and a staff in her hands, blood on her skirts and a healer's mask over her mouth and nose. One day in September the staves all stopped working, so they were replaced with cases of concoctions and bottles of alcohol and roll upon roll of bandages, silk thread and sterilized needles to sew up damage, broken chair legs and braided twine to splint broken limbs. Brady learned all he knew from his mother in those days, until sickness swept through in October and took her with his father and a chunk of Ylisstol's population. November was when Lissa recieved a letter from Valm, sent three days after the eighteenth of June— Naga's Voice was dead, and it could only mean that Naga was, too.  
  
That was November of 1430. What remained of Ylisstol and its people had shrunk only to its castle, and later on, Lucina would estimate that as the point in time it sunk in that it would be her generation that would have to fix this. What remained of that was Lucina herself, last known survivor of the Exalted bloodline. Owain, the son of a princess and a mage that was never cut out to be a soldier but died like one anyway. Brady, one of the few remaining priests that knew his mother's healing methods and the only one that talked like a farm boy. Laurent, though his name was different at the time and he only wished he got to tell his mother and father who he really was. Kjelle, with armor far too big for her and a knack for appearing out of thin air. And quiet little Nah, her little brother's best friend.  
  
The son and daughter of Naga's Voice and the queen of Chon'sin arrived not long after the letter, with a letter (addressed "to Exalt Lissa, should she be alive, or Exalt Lucina, should she be dead, or otherwise, to whom it may concern") on parchment warped with a dark stain that more than likely wasn't ink and stamped with the Con'sin royal seal. They bowed to her— to _her,_ Lucina, to whom the words "Exalt Lucina" sounded foreign and strange on her tongue, as they did Lissa, as Sir Frederick had to her parents. Ke'tu was the elder brother, tall and strong and three years older than Lucina, and Marti the sister, the last of the Divine Dragons.  
  
With December, Severa came on the back of a pegasus she did not mount again, leading by the hand a weak-lunged little Cynthia that tripped on the front steps to the castle. Yarne came in February with three Taguel siblings (Twyne, Flossie, Cord) in tow that did not make it through the winter. March brought Gerome and Noire in from Rosanne on the back of a battle-scarred wyvern. Inigo arrived in an abnormally-dark May pretending to be a springtime that did not come and Lucina remembered her brother's birthday was around then, but didn't realize her own, too, had passed.  
  
That made fourteen— fourteen children made to grow up far to early, fourteen children carrying the weight of an age, but fourteen children nonetheless. Lucina was thirteen and starting to train with a real sword when she stopped thinking of herself as a child.  
  
The number of people that had taken refuge behind the castle walls when Lissa had opened them slowly dwindled, the number of names of the dead carved into bricks slowly grew. Lucina stopped seeing faces she'd once known, and wished she'd known their names. The brawny chambermaid with nine fingers, the creaky old librarian, the freckled stablehand that named all the horses. The crotchety gardener that always lectured Lucina for trampling the flowerbeds. The painter of the portraits that hung in the hall outside the throne room. The boy that took care of the messenger birds and knew the name of every star in the sky. The old Council members her father had always complained about where they couldn't hear. The three sons of the treasurer that taught Lucina how to throw a punch and hit a ball. The mages studying in the Mage's Tower. The healers in the Northwest wing. The soldiers.  
  
Saria was an unexpected addition to the group of children in Castle Ylisse, given the role in history her parents had played— her mother highly-ranked in the Grimleal cult that had begun the End, her father an infamous king that ordered the assassination of Exalt Emmeryn before Lucina was born— but became a valuable ally nonetheless. Lucina couldn't help but think that maybe they would've met sooner if Ylisse and Plegia were in a time of peace instead. (As it was, Lucina knew her father would never have approved of the friendship they formed.)  
  
Exalt Lissa was the last of the parents to die, arms out as if to act as the wall of Castle Ylisse herself after hordes of Risen had smashed them in. That was 1435, Lucina was fairly sure, and thus began what Severa half-jokingly called Lucina's reign. Thus far it had only lasted three years, mostly spent trying not to die or go mad, with rushed half-strategy meetings under a hastily-rigged tent at three in the morning, discussing just what they were even going to do, because it wasn't like they could wander around until Grima died of exhaustion.  
  
So they ended up in Plegia, since it was a reasonable guess Grima was keeping the Gemstones nearby, and the Fire Emblem was, to their knowledge, in Plegia Castle. Lucina didn't doubt that camping out this close to Grima could easily be suicide, but they had a slim chance of success, and a slim chance was still better than none.  
  
She squinted in the light of a single match, dusting loose sand off a ragged city map. It had once been called Dahiri, the capital city of Plegia— made all too obvious by Plegia Castle just half an hour's walk away down a red-tiled road. Grima still resided there, or at least what was left of His vessel did. It was a dangerous spot to be in that night, but if the Gemstones were to be retrieved, this was the place.  
  
A form shimmered into place beside her, as if the shadows had parted. "Milord."  
  
Lucina glanced up, wishing she had better low-light vision. More so, she wished she could light a lantern, or at least a candle, instead of using a half-soaked match that would probably burn out in minutes. But that may as well be like sending up a flare— even if there were no Risen there, they'd come like moths to the rather literal flame. "Ke'tu? Did you find something?"  
  
Ke'tu grunted affirmation, the most he ever really said, but Lucina could work with that. The fact that he'd managed to get information as to the whereabouts of the Five Gemstones was incredible— she hadn't thought to question just how he'd gotten that, though. Lucina had always been what most would call 'blindly trusting.' Perhaps that was part of why her teammates were so loyal.  
  
Ke'tu crouched beside Lucina on the sand-covered floorboards of an abandoned house, pointing to a big building towards the center of the city— the Plegian Archives. The way he looked at Lucina from under the brim of his hood made Lucina's eyes widen. They were keeping the Gemstones _there_ of all places? Tactically, that didn't make any sense— though tactics weren't Lucina's greatest strength.  
  
She knew someone for whom they were, though, and the thought sent a pang of sadness through her chest. She said outwardly that Marcus was no longer an ally, as he had succumbed to the Fell Dragon's blood in him when all of this started, years previous, and outwardly, everyone had agreed, but there was a level of quiet sadness when something reminded anyone of him. Poor Nah, she'd been closest to the boy, though she'd never admit how much she missed him.  
  
"Tell the others," she said, blowing out the tiny flame of the match and rolling up the map. "We move out in five. Has Marti come back from patrol yet?"  
  
Another affirmitive grunt from Ke'tu, who bowed respectfully to her before vanishing once more. Lucina bit her lip, like she tended to do when she was nervous, tucking the map in the bag at her side and crushing the burnt-out match under her heel, making her footsteps as quiet as possible as she toed down the stairs to the lower floor of the house, passing Noire on her way up to switch with Cynthia on sentry duty and passing the order to move along, and Noire promised to do the same. Noire had been easily upset before, frail and sensitive, but after awhile she'd simply run out of tears and all that was left were empty eyes and a slowly-burning anger ever-present and threatening to consume all. Lucina hated seeing her look like that— seeing all her companions stretched tight as bowstrings, with shadows under their eyes and dirt on their faces and terse words exchanged about who might die next. Moreover, she hated herself for not being able to prevent it, despite knowing there wasn't anything she could've done.  
  
Lucina knew she looked like that, too, but she hadn't had the chance to look in a decent mirror in months.  
  
Downstairs had once been a cozy living area, with a kitchen and a fireplace and things, but it had long since been gutted and all that was in the fireplace was slowly-burning charcoal. Nine of her teammates were around it, napping or polishing weapons or doing what they could to keep themselves from going insane— Gerome stitched up tears in clothing, Brady bandaged the wounds of the rest of the team, Severa checked and rechecked the meager supplies they had. Kjelle kept a close eye on weapon and armor durability, Nah took charge of cleaning and, when appropriate, Inigo made rather nice meals with the rations they had.  
  
Marti's self-appointed job was the head of patrol duty. She was still a young dragon, though older than Nah, but she was stunningly resilient and small enough to crawl through all the secret passageways Saria found. As such, it was not a surprise when she pulled herself up through a hole under one of the floorboards and brushed the sand off her dress in a useless gesture, since the once-white fabric was permanently stained a vague shade of beige from the constant grime of traveling in such a world.  
  
"Milord," she said, voice hushed, padding over to Lucina. "Did Ke'tu tell you? We found the Gemstones."  
  
Except for Nah, who was asleep with her head on Yarne and a scavenged blanket around her tiny shoulders, all activity paused. The Gemstones were what they were looking for— with them, and the Fire Emblem, they may be able to scrounge up enough power to at least do something. If not save their world, which most figured was beyond saving, maybe Naga, if She was still alive, would grant them the mercy of being able to have a peaceful afterlife.  
  
"They're in the Archives," Lucina nodded, pulling the map back out and pointing to the big building. "We're moving in five. It doesn't look far, but the lack of Risen we've seen makes me wary. They could be expecting us to go to the Archives in search of the Gemstones."  
  
"But we have to try, don't we?" That was Saria, coming out of seemingly nowhere behind Lucina, as Yarne gently nudged Nah awake and Noire and Cynthia assembled with the rest, gathering up every trace of the fact they'd been there at all. They knew what to do by now.  
  
Lucina turned, and a tiny smile crossed her dirt-streaked face without her realizing it. Saria didn't have the elegant seductiveness of her mother, but she did have a lot of cockiness and a lot of faith that Lucina knew what she was doing— perhaps too much faith. If it were anyone else, having such belief and conviction put into her cause would've been a lot of pressure, but with Saria, it somehow seemed possible. She couldn't fathom why. Her mother would probably know.  
  
"That's your line, isn't it, princess?" Saria said with a hand on her hip. "You're falling out of step."  
  
"What would I ever do if you didn't remind me?" Lucina replied. "Princess."  
  
Saria gave Lucina that little smirk of hers, the one that made Lucina's heart flutter for absolutely no reason Lucina could really understand, and glanced over the map. The violet streaks of face paint on her dark skin were as pristine and sharp as ever— she had told Lucina that it made her feel closer to her mother, and her heritage. In the past, Saria had said she'd hoped to remove the stigma from the Plegian name, though now it didn't seem likely they'd be able to at all. But she still did it, the same way Severa still combed through her dirty hair, the same way Kjelle still polished her armor, the same way Inigo still put in his earrings every day and the same way Ke'tu wore his mother's headband tied so neatly around his head.  
  
"I know a quick way to the Archives, topside," she commented. "We won't all fit through Marti's passage, and if there are any lurkers around, the chances are they won't see us."  
  
Marti, who was lowering herself back down into the passageway through the floor, frowned and reluctantly came back up. It was true, they wouldn't all be able to fit— not all fifteen of them. Even if Gerome and Cynthia rode Minerva, and if Marti and Nah flew, bringing the number down to eleven, it'd still be hard to cram everyone in there.  
  
As Saria explained her route, Ke'tu kept lookout. Using the bright moonlight through the high windows, it was easier to see than squinting with a match, and everyone listened closely to what she had to say. In such a small, tightly-knit group and such a dire situation, communication was vital. Any personal problems anyone may have with someone else just weren't as important. If you were going to live through the constant struggle life had become, you had better get over petty rivalries.  
  
And thus, they moved. The group moved quickly, quietly, in practiced formation that left no openings. Lucina always had to marvel at how well her friends had taken to patrol file, since the only actual practice they had was trial and error. They'd learned the hard way, for instance, that it was really best to keep Laurent and Brady on the inside of the formation— nobody wanted a mage kebab.  
  
Lucina supposed she should've felt better that they had a guide— since Saria knew Dahiri like the back of her hand, they were able to move without having to stop and fumble with the maps. But even in guided territory and with the odd lack of Risen prowling about, Lucina couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Her Brand kept aching as if it were about to give Lucina a glimpse of the moments to come, but none did, which was perhaps the most vexing part of it. Her gift was immensely useful, sure, but it was awfully annoying when it didn't do what she needed.  
  
Laurent nudged her as the group moved. "Anything?"  
  
"No," Lucina sighed. "It's awfully annoying, not being able to see."  
  
"Don't I know it," Saria chimed in, cracking a joke at her own expense. "But it looks like I only get half of that old archetype. Take the next right, up the stairs."  
  
The group hurried up the set of stairs. Saria chuckled at her own joke, though she was the only one that ever did. She had a very pretty laugh, at least Lucina thought so, but that wasn't exactly the time to savor it. In another life, Lucina would have taken her hand as they ran through the chaotic spread of the Dahiri city streets together, laughed like they weren't possibly being watched by enemies from every angle— but that was a different Lucina, and a different Saria.  
  
"We'll split into two groups here," Lucina decided as they reached the massive doors to the Plegian Archives. "Gerome, Laurent, Noire, Cynthia, Ke'tu, Yarne, and Brady go with Saria around the smaller entrance to the North wing. I'll take Owain, Inigo, Marti, Nah, Severa, and Kjelle to the South. Scout the areas for clues as to where the Gemstones may be. We'll rendezvous in an hour on the inside of the main doors if no one's found them by then. Understood?"  
  
With the general nod of agreement, the group split in two. As Saria was about to lead her group around the other end of the tower, Lucina stopped her, took her by the arm. She acted before thinking, pulling Plegia's young princess into a tight kiss that left the coppery taste of danger on Lucina's lips. Perhaps, Lucina might have thought, if she kissed hard enough, Saria would come back alive.  
  
"Be careful, Saria," Lucina whispered, her lips at the shell of Saria's ear.  
  
Saria's messy red hair tickled Lucina's skin as she nodded. "You too, Lucina."  
  
They parted then, and perhaps, in another life, Lucina would've watched with a longing glance to Saria's retreating back, perhaps resisting the urge to run back and kiss her again, but that life was not hers. So as Saria left with her group towards the North wing, Lucina led hers towards the South. With luck, they'd find what they need there— maybe then they'd be able to see an end to their unwanted journey.


	3. Fratercide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wondered if the Ylissean army had been a part of the no-doubt-countless battles that had occurred here.
> 
> In the same breath, she wondered if she could even call herself a Ylissean anymore.

In a word, the Plegian Archives were _creepy._  
  
Lucina couldn't think of a better way to describe it. As unnerving as the lack of enemies in the rest of the city was, the air felt like someone had multiplied that to the power of ten. If such a device existed to measure tension, it certainly would've broken the minute Lucina stepped through the door— that was how on-edge she felt. She would've preferred that a platoon of Risen be waiting for them as soon as they entered, because at least then she'd know a bit of the atmosphere would dissipate once they defeated all of them. This, however, made her feel like she was balancing with her toes at the edge of a cliff, like any wrong movements would send her tumbling down to her death.  
  
She was sure the Archives were once magnificent— a feat of Plegian architecture twenty stories tall at its central section and flanked on four sides with elegant towers, all topped with stained-glass domes that must've taken years to complete. Standing at its center, her boots on once-plush carpet and shards of colored glass, Lucina could imagine the view from that very point before the End Days began. The shelves would be stacked from floor to ceiling, absolutely overflowing with any knowledge anyone may want to know, every crevasse illuminated by spheres of magic in violet and gold. Perhaps there would be people, too, like the scholars and the mages and the archivists themselves. Though now they were likely all dead, and their families too.  
  
Now the Archives more resembled an abandoned battleground than a repository of knowledge. The lights were gone, shelves that had once stood tall gutted of their contents. The glass dome had shattered and what remained lay in dusty shards on the worn-out carpet, on top of crumpled parchment and tattered books too damaged to read. The granite columns were crumbling with neglect and battle damage. A thick layer of dust and sand had settled over everything, and clouds of it floated up wherever Lucina walked.  
  
She wondered if the Ylissean army had been a part of the no-doubt-countless battles that had occurred here.  
  
In the same breath, she wondered if she could even call herself a Ylissean anymore.  
  
"Check every book that's left," she ordered her team, turning back to the loose semicircle of adolescents awaiting her command. "We're searching the north and east wings. Nothing is too unlikely a place. If it can hold a walnut, check it. Understood?"  
  
Her group choroused agreement, and fanned out through the rows of empty shelves, holding up oil-filled lanterns to chase away the darkness. It was still a little nerve-wracking to have her army split up, but Lucina knew that the sooner they found the Gemstones, the sooner they could leave.  
  
As she walked through the rows of shelves, thick dust filtering through the orange light of her lantern, Lucina couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Like the darkness had grown catlike eyes that would shimmer when Lucina's lantern found them, and then blink away as quickly as they'd come. Like something— or someone— was lurking in the darkness and about to ambush her. She could almost hear it chuckling, snickering, cackling to itself with a dark amusement that was too sinister to be mischevious and not quite enough to be truly malicious. Perhaps it was running, darting between rows in a blink of the eye like the pixies in fairytales that played tricks on travelers but would grant a wish if caught. It was all to easy to imagine it happening just below where she could truly percieve it. But the thought was silly, so Lucina dismissed it.  
  
Pixies, really? And at her age, too. It had been well established that things like that weren't real, no more than nature spirits and hobgoblins. She lived in the real world, damnit, and she couldn't let herself be caught off-guard by imagining things. (Perhaps luckily, Lucina and her friends remained blissfully unaware of their status as fictional.)  
  
Though she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Lucina put a hand on Falchion, in the unlikely event someone was about to sneak up from behind and put a knife in her neck. Those days, you couldn't be too careful. You had to be alert, on-guard at all times, ready for anything in case something happened. Your reaction time could be the difference between life and—  
  
Lucina spun and sliced a groove in the two bookshelves to her sides before she could process what had happened. Her lantern fell with a clatter to the ground and went out, plunging her surroundings into darkness. Her heartbeat doubled what it had been, pounding loud in her ears with the sound of blood rushing and her own breathing. Something had crashed— a bookshelf, possibly, and perhaps a chunk of the second story had come crumbling down.  
  
A dark blur darted past, kicking up a trail of dust that filtered through the moonlight. It was followed closely by something equally as fast but only half as visible, and then a stampede of what could only be her army, complete with the cacoughany of crashing armor, yelling, and swearing that _always_ happened without someone leading the charge.  
  
Lucina ran out with the goal of stopping her friends from the sort of unrestrained chaos that would occur if you let a sqirrel loose in front of a pack of very excitable dogs, but it seemed that was hopeless. Lucina could only watch, Falchion drawn, as eleven heavily-armed youths, two dragons, and a large rabbit-creature, all with a learned instinct to attack anything that moved if they didn't know immediately what it was, caught up to the two dark shapes and converged upon it at the base of the stairs. Lucina thought, not without exasperation, that this was just like the time they'd spotted a wild boar after subsiding mostly on beans and pemmican for six months— they'd stuck the poor beast with so many swords and spears and arrows that it was mostly inedible by the time everyone calmed down enough to see the results. Apparently, there _was_ such a thing as overkill.  
  
But apparently these mystery forms were much smarter than the boar had been. They jumped up, the smaller one clinging tightly to the larger, to a height that wouldn't have been possible without magic that Lucina couldn't see from that distance, and landed neatly on the thick stone ledge bordering the second floor.  
  
The figures didn't seem to want to attack, and that was the point Lucina decided to intervene.  
  
"What in Naga's name were all of you thinking?" she demanded, in that authoritative voice she'd learned from her father without realizing. "Have you learned nothing on the dangers of recklessness? Have we not been over this several times?"  
  
_"It was my fault,"_ Yarne volunteered sheepishly, his beast-form ears drooping. _"I thought I saw a spider. A-a really poisonous one, too! But, er… well, obviously, it wasn't."_  
  
Lucina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. How had her parents managed? "Yes, it obviously was not a spider. Now that _that_ has been established, perhaps our guest would like to show himself?"  
  
She looked back up to the figures on the second-floor ledge. The smaller was sitting with their knees together, face shaded by the hood of an off-white robe the color of the dust settled over the Archives. Oddly, Lucina didn't notice much else, as if her eyes were skipping right over them. The larger figure, though, had one knee up and the other leg dangling off the edge, idly swinging back and fourth. Their coat was a very familiar shade of midnight purple with a big hood and a thick, golden weaving on the collar and cuffs, though it was faded, and Lucina had the uneasy feeling that whoever that was was laughing at her too quietly for her to hear.  
  
Perhaps it wasn't at her, but the figure _was_ laughing— almost a mad cackle, that started off to himself and got louder, until it echoed through the night air of the Plegian Archives. The figure vaulted off the ledge and jumped in a clear arc to a violet magic circle that appeared right beneath where his feet were going to land. The circle descended slowly, allowing him to theatrically step off and walk right up to Lucina, hands tucked behind his back. Kjelle leaned forwards as if to lead an attack, but Lucina held out a hand in a gesture for her to stop.  
  
"I have to say," the figure announced, an uneasy hush immediately settling over the Archives. "I was _not_ expecting you, of all people, to show up here and now. I'm impressed! Be proud of yourself for that— it's not an easy feat."  
  
"Who are you?" Lucina demanded. "Speak the truth, or die where you stand!"  
  
The figure set a pale, scrawny hand over his chest in mock hurt. "Jeez, that's awfully cold! I know it's been a while, but 'die where you stand' is a little harsh, don't you think, Lucina?"  
  
Lucina blinked in surprise. "How do you know my name? What dark magic—"  
  
"Not dark magic," the figure interrupted. "I did a little experimentation, and made it my own. It's more like… _Marc_ magic."  
  
Lucina's eyes widened. "That's impossible," she murmured. "You're— I thought—"  
  
The figure scoffed, pushing his hood back and shaking out a head of shaggy hair just long enough to brush his chin. It looked dark, matted and tangled from lack of care, but Lucina didn't doubt that its natural hue was identical to her own.  
  
"And yet, here I am!" the figure chuckled, with an all-too-familiar impish grin. One front tooth was chipped and it was etched into sallow skin with sunken features, framed by thin, chapped lips and a mottled purple bruise in one corner, but it was definitely the same grin Lucina knew from all those years ago. Lucina felt her blood turn to ice— it was Marcus, but at the same time, it _wasn't._ Her little brother would never cackle like that, or mess around with dark magic. Lucina felt an inexplicable sense of betrayal.  
  
"What, didn't you miss me?" Marcus asked, though the tone of his voice held a mocking note. "I'm hurt. Risen are awful company, you know. When you stab them, they just stand there until they dissolve. Though, ironically, they're smarter than the living soldiers— no wonder all of them are dead!"  
  
"What happened to you?" Lucina mumbled. The Marcus she knew would never talk like that— that Marcus cried when he found wounded baby birds in the garden and formed emotional attachments to rocks with painted-on eyes. This one laughed gleefully upon remembering death, as if everything was a big, funny joke.  
  
Marcus shrugged. "Dunno, really," he mused. "But maybe I was always like this. Maybe you just never bothered to know me."  
  
"Marcus, that's—" Lucina tried to speak, but Marcus shut her down.  
  
"Maybe I was always a monster!" he chuckled, swinging his arms out to his sides. "Too bad we can't catch up, though, sis."  
  
"Are you under orders to kill me?" Lucina growled, her grip on Falchion tightening.  
  
"Naaah," Marcus drawled. He was so casual about the whole thing— about summoning armies of undead soldiers as if they were pieces on a gameboard, about playing with dark magic, about being accused of being ordered to murder his own sister. He sounded sociopathic and self-loathing all at once and Lucina had absolutely no idea how to process this.  
  
He chuckled, knocking Lucina's thoughts away. "Hey, you know what's funny, though?"  
  
"From what I've seen, I can only guess it has something to do with mass murder," Lucina guessed.  
  
"Can't be mass murder if the majority of the world's population is undead," Marcus retorted. "Wrong you are, Luci! And here I thought it was impossible for you to be wrong. What's funny is that this is all working out great! It's so great, you don't even know how great it is. Heck, _Grima_ doesn't even know how great it is, and He's got an all-access pass to my brain! Call me an egotist, but man, am I smart or what?"  
  
He laughed at that, arms swinging loosely by his sides. The more Marcus spoke, the more Lucina got the impression that he was putting on a show, though only partially. She had to wonder what was behind the showy loyal-subordinate-to-Grima thing— if he really _was_ pulling the strings from beneath the notice of anyone else. His surface persona was just unhinged enough to be off-putting, which was likely its job, but Lucina would likely hear that cackle in her nightmares.  
  
Lucina nearly swung Falchion again when the second figure tugged at her sleeve. They'd pulled their hood down as well, though even without a face to see, Lucina would've guessed the second figure was a young girl. She looked about eleven, with skin the same shade as Saria's and messy hair so dark it seemed to swallow all other colors. Wordlessly, she handed Lucina a folded piece of parchment with an awkward-looking representation of a stick-limbed Marcus, and the words 'MARCUS'S SUPER-AWESOME MEGA-COOL ULTRA-REALLY-SMART PLANS: LUCINA EDITION,' decorated with little five-pointed stars and 'TOP SECRET, SHHH!! DON'T TALK ABOUT IT UNTIL YOU'RE AT THE SAFEHOUSE' at the top.  
  
"Well, you know, I'd love to stay and chat," Marcus decided, cracking his knuckles and creating another magic circle under his feet. "Catch up with everyone, you know? Since I see so many new faces, I can only imagine you've made some new friends. But evil never waits!"  
  
Before Lucina could ask what that meant, he was gone, darted off on his magic circles.  
  
"What the fuck," Marti mumbled, which, really, was the only accurate summary of what everyone else was thinking right then.  
  
Lucina looked from the settling dust clouds where Marcus had once stood to the still-unknown child that had given her a letter with no explanation at all. Clearly, it seemed, the Gemstones would have to wait.


	4. Misapprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severa let out a sigh. "Sheesh, what did we do to deserve this?"
> 
> She'd just voiced exactly what everyone had thought, at least once. For Lucina, it was a near-constant thought— why them? Why then? What did they do to inherit their rotten world?

Though Lucina couldn't say she'd seen it all at that point, she'd certainly seen some shit. There was the typical blood and gore of wartime, of course, but that was hardly extraordinary. She'd watched Ylisstol fall, witnessed her friends maimed within inches of their lives on more than one occasion, came across acres and acres of rubble and ash where cities had once been. She had been there as the world fell to a sort of chaos beyond anyone's control, as hope of saving the future slipped further and further from her grasp.  
  
But in terms of strangeness, those things ranked very low. Now that she thought of it, few things _did_ qualify as bizarre those days. Until very recently, actually, Owain's journal of weapon names was the weirdest thing she'd ever seen. But somehow, the past hour or so was stranger than every other bit of weirdness she'd witnessed, and it was all topped off by the child in the middle of the room.  
  
It was mildly alarming that, to Lucina, the strangest thing she could list was a young girl giving a verbal tour of a vacant house like she'd invited them over to play for the afternoon, sounding like any barely-pubescent child from a world that wasn't almost entirely devoid of life. Perhaps it was how _normal_ she sounded that blew Owain's journal out of the water with regards to strangeness. Lucina wasn't sure which was worse— the fact that she'd become so used to her hell-world that a happy child was incredibly bizarre, or the fact that this child could manage to act like that despite living in the aforementioned hell-world.  
  
At least Marcus had explained most of the circumstances in his letter, in blocky, uneven penmanship that Lucina had seen all over his lessons when they were young. (His art skills, evidently, had not improved.)  
  
The child's name was Morgan, she was eleven years old, and she was the daughter of Robin's twin brother— and it seemed neither twin had mentioned each other to their families. Marcus had written something about their safehouse being protected by one of his seals, of which Lucina only understood a little bit, followed by three paragraphs of writing so filled with tactical and magical jargon that it made Lucina's head buzz. At least he'd had the good sense to draw a map of where the Five Gemstones were, on the back of the page. Lucina had always been better with visuals.  
  
Lucina wasn't really paying attention to Morgan's tour, or much of anything else, for that matter. She'd hunched over on the low bench against one wall with a battered notebook, adding to her messy sketches of the Archives with a chunk of charcoal, and jotting down what she could understand of Marcus's letter on the opposite page— which, admittedly, wasn't much. She'd have to let Laurent and Kjelle take a look later.  
  
She heard Severa say something to her, though she was far too into her sketch to have any interest in hearing it. Whatever it was, it sounded sharp and mildly annoyed— par for the course, with Severa, so Lucina didn't acknowledge much.  
  
"Sure," she mumbled, when Severa repeated what she'd said. "I'll be right there."  
  
Severa scoffed and grumbled something Lucina didn't hear (something about never listening), and a second later, Lucina found her notebook being snatched out of her hands.  
  
"I was using that," she protested, finally looking up.  
  
"Not anymore," Severa said firmly, lightly whapping her on the head with the notebook. "Consider this an intervention. Do you know what time it is?"  
  
Lucina raised an eyebrow. "No, and neither do you."  
  
That got a snort out of Severa, holding Lucina's notebook just out of reach as she sat down on the bench. Her hair was down, an odd sight in it of itself, though Lucina figured it'd be awkward to sleep any other way.  
  
"It's late, is what it is," she said matter-of-factly, still holding the notebook an inch away from Lucina's reaching arm. "And don't pull any of that 'volunteering for first watch' business with me. We don't even _need_ to take turns tonight, if this place is really as safe as the kid said." Though Severa wagered that nobody would sleep through the night without automatically waking up for their shift— except Marti, maybe. That girl slept like a rock.  
  
Lucina hummed, giving up on taking her notebook back. "That's true. Isn't that something? I don't know how long it's been."  
  
"Maybe we're on a lucky streak," Severa said wryly. "Maybe the sky will rain donuts next. Or better yet, maybe we'll wake up tomorrow morning and realize this is all a dream."  
  
"I'm not sure my imagination is good enough for that," Lucina admitted. "Though, maybe…"  
  
She didn't say anything, but Severa knew what she was thinking. Severa had never met Marcus in person before, as she'd arrived in Ylisstol after he and Robin dropped off the map, and as such, her first impression of Lucina's younger brother was a scrawny, greasy-haired, pockmarked teenager in a faded coat too big for him darting around on magic circles and cackling gleefully at death. Of course she didn't say anything about that, knowing Lucina was probably still wrestling with the concept of her brother on the side of the enemy.  
  
"If I'd known," Lucina mumbled. "If I'd been able to see that Grima would pick him, could I have changed it? Could he have picked me, instead?"  
  
Severa blanched. "Whoa, princess, let's take a step back."  
  
"But what if I could've protected him from this?" Lucina kept going. "Gods, Marcus isn't— that _thing_ was not my brother! I don't know what Grima did to him, but— but I—"  
  
Despite herself, Lucina's eyes started welling up, cheeks flushed in anger and shame. She rubbed them stubbornly with the back of her hand, as Severa set an uncharacteristically gentle hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Hey, Lucina," she said evenly. "There is literally _no_ possible way you could've known about all this before it began. It—" she bit her tongue. _It's not your fault_ sounded too cliche, but Severa didn't know any other way to put it that wasn't mean or unhelpful. Gods, when had she become the one people looked to for emotional advice? Was it not well established that she was a cruel and unpleasant person?  
  
"It was never your responsibility to prevent the end of the world," she said instead. "Who _cares_ if Naga gave you ESP? That doesn't mean that you somehow failed because you— like everyone else in this gods-damned world— couldn't predict the exact chain of events that led to everything going to hell in a handbasket!"  
  
Lucina blinked, her eyes puffy. "Severa, I—"  
  
"And you know what else?" Severa interruped. "Your little brother getting chosen by Grima probably wouldn't mean _shit_ if history had turned out differently. Maybe in some timeline out there— I don't know— maybe our grandparents got themselves together before the first Great War started! Then we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. Thanks, gramps."  
  
Lucina chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "Thanks, indeed."  
  
Severa let out a sigh. "Sheesh, what did we do to deserve this?"  
  
She'd just voiced exactly what everyone had thought, at least once. For Lucina, it was a near-constant thought— why them? Why then? What did they do to inherit their rotten world?  
  
"Listen, Lucina," Severa started talking again. "I'm glad you trust me enough to talk about all of that, but it's seriously late, and you need to sleep. I'm sure your girlfriend's waiting."  
  
Lucina's ears turned red. "And I can only assume yours is, too."  
  
Severa grinned impishly, pushing herself to her feet. "If I have anything to say about it, certainly. Get some sleep, Luce."  
  
Lucina nodded, a grateful little smile crossing her face as she stood up and stretched, her muscles sore and joints popping from being still for so long. She winced a little— perhaps she should've moved earlier.  
  
Nonetheless, she smiled back at Severa. "Goodnight, Severa. Thank you for listening."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight."  
  
"Really, I appreciate it. If there's any way—"  
  
"Go to bed, damn it."  
  
She had a point. Lucina grinned sheepishly and nodded. Severa seemed satisfied with that; she nodded firmly and gave the notebook back with the silent promise to show no mercy if Lucina opened it again that night.  
  
Lucina watched her make her way back to the rest of the group, in a jumble of bodies and musty quilts around the warmth of a tome. Though they were all her friends, they were also her soldiers— they would rally if she gave the command, follow the path she led them down, listen to the short speeches she gave in an effort to boost morale. And in return, it was Lucina's responsibility to make sure they weren't following her for nothing.  
  
She remembered her mother saying the same thing once. A leader protected her army as a shepherd protected his sheep— which, not coincidentally, was where the name for her father's army originated. The Shepherds were born from a dream held by a young prince that never thought he'd be king, an altruistic desire to protect the people of Ylisse with no ulterior motive. Though it had grown, the core belief stayed.  
  
Though now, they protected one another, and carefully safeguarded what hope there was that they'd survive. The unspoken agreement— and Lucina was unaware of this— was that _Lucina must live,_ or it would be for nothing. Lucina embodied that hope, the spark that shone defiant in the face of devastation. It wasn't about patriotism, or faith, or power. Theirs was a battle for survival— a long, desperate battle to stay alive.  
  
This was a battle, Lucina had sworn to her friends, to herself, that they would win. It was an oath, a promise that _things would be okay,_ and in days like theirs, a promise was as good as a certainty.


	5. Dualism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lucina got older, as the divisions between them grew deeper, she saw her mother consumed by an internal struggle she hid with a smile. Her dark eyes would glint scarlet sometimes when shadow crossed her face, and when the occasional short outburst of anger would occur, Lucina pretended not to notice.

Though what Severa had said hours before still rang true in Lucina's ears, she was still unable to put her thoughts to rest.  
  
Though an excuse for that was easy. She was their leader and older than most of them, it was only natural she kept an eye out, even if they'd found what was perhaps the last truly safe place in the world. While the rest of her team was asleep on the blankets and quilts around the warmth of an open Fire tome in the middle of the central room, Lucina stayed awake and idly watched the tome's magical fire flickering. With everyone asleep, it felt so peaceful, like they weren't the last remaining hope for their society. Like they were just kids.  
  
If she looked at Saria alone, her head on Lucina's shoulder and an arm lazily draped over her stomach, eyes closed and breathing steadily through her nose, Lucina could pretend it was just them in the world that night. Like they were teenage lovers sharing a bed for the night because they could, like in the morning they wouldn't have to put their armor back on and assume roles they were far too young for. Lucina liked to imagine that one day they would wake up together in a real bed with warm blankets, and be able to lie there and kiss each other and _exist_ like no one was going to be there watching and expecting them to be adults about the situation.  
  
Lucina idly examined the ring on a thin chain around her neck in the low light, flickering orange from the lantern on one side and blue from the moon and stars outside on the other. It was gold in color, and its weight meant it was the real thing. There were no stones, but Plegian script was engraved into the slender band that wound twice around the wearer's finger in a spiral. Its centerpiece was a little engraving of the Grimleal's crest, the six eyes of the little ring seeming to bore right into Lucina's skull. It was Plegian in make, but the only Plegia Lucina knew anything about was the Grima-worshipping country that had started this whole mess in the first place. This ring felt very different, like it was from another time.  
  
Marcus and Lucina both were of mixed heritage— they had their mother's Plegian blood and their father's Ylissean, both with a lineage that did not blend with any other country. Lucina's grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents on her father's side had all been Ylissean, the same on her mother's for Plegia. Not until she and Marcus had the two royal bloodlines ever been mixed.  
  
Plegia and Ylisse. Grima and Naga. Mother and father. It all seemed very dichotomic to Lucina, and she could even see it in herself and Marcus. Lucina was practically the spitting image of her father, from the hue of her hair to the way her brow furrowed when she got anxious. Though her skin tone was closer to her mother's and ears and nose had grown to match, it was inarguable that Chrom was Lucina's father. She tried to emualte him— she favored swords like he did, tried to memorize all his forms and styles, and Chrom absolutely adored her. Her Brand had surfaced within days of her birth, marking her as a born Exalt. She was told Robin had been overjoyed, thinking that perhaps, since Naga had given Lucina the Brand, she may have been spared the burden of Grima's blood.  
  
Marcus was not quite the same. His hair and skin were closer to Chrom's, yes, but aside from that he was his mother's child. He trailed after Robin at every step, toddled around in her coat and pretended he was a great tactician that changed the fates of battles with the wave of a hand. Though day after day, his fair skin remained unmarked, either by Naga or by Grima. As Lucina got older, as the divisions between them grew deeper, she saw her mother consumed by an internal struggle she hid with a smile. Her dark eyes would glint scarlet sometimes when shadow crossed her face, and when the occasional short outburst of anger would occur, Lucina pretended not to notice.  
  
And the end of the world began when Marcus was eight and Lucina was twelve and the Mark of the Grimleal showed up in her little brother's right eye.  
  
A scowl crossed her face as she stared at the ring. This wasn't the fault of Naga or Grima Themselves, but it certainly was of the people that had worshipped Them. If the Children of Naga hadn't decided to paint the Grimleal as destruction-worshipping heathens, and if the Grimleal hadn't decided to paint the Children of Naga as self-righteous tyrants, maybe it wouldn't have led to all-out war between two sides using theology as an excuse to search for more power. Maybe Lucina and her friends wouldn't have had to clean up the mess they made.  
  
Lucina let out a heavy sigh. She wanted to blame _someone_ for creating the hell she and her friends had to fight through, though she didn't know who. Damn the old priests and their dichotomizing of Naga and Grima. Damn her patenral grandfather for starting the first Great War. Damn her maternal grandfather, too, for forcing her mother to live with the burden of a false Grima and worrying whether her children would have to carry it, too. Damn the prejudice. Damn the ignorance. Damn Grima. Damn Naga. Damn religion and damn everything that made it so Lucina and her friends had to try and fix a future that they didn't ask for.  
  
She felt Saria shift in response. Saria lifted her head then, yawning, locks of dark red hair dangling over her face. She looked different without the face paint, though in Lucina's opinion, it was just another one of the many ways Saria was beautiful.  
  
"It's too late to be up," Saria whispered. "The first night no one has to keep watch, and you're up at Grima's-ass-o'clock?"  
  
Lucina half-smiled at Saria's choice of expression (vulgar and sacreligious though it may be), though it was more a grimace, and set the ring aside. "I was just thinking."  
  
"About what?" Saria asked, shifting so she was propped up on her elbows. "How long it'll be until you get to see my gorgeous face again? Because I've just solved that problem for you. You're welcome."  
  
Lucina hummed a little. "I was actually mentally cursing everyone I can think of that played a part in creating this mess."  
  
"So, just about every Ylissean and Plegian of the past century?" Saria mused. "Up to and including the bastardized power-grab versions of Naga and Grima they created?"  
  
"I'm tempted to blame the real Naga and Grima," Lucina mumbled dryly. "I know it isn't Their fault, but with all the nonsense people doing things in Their names have caused, believing in any higher power, dragon or not, doesn't seem worth it."  
  
Saria made a quiet sound in agreement. "It's hard to keep faith when what you really believe in seems like a fairy tale."  
  
Lucina quieted at that. Saria, like her mother, self-identified as devout Grimleal, and both of them had known full well what stigma that name held. At a younger age, Lucina loved watching Saria's face light up when she talked about her faith— the way she spoke was so impassioned that Lucina couldn't help but listen, even if she didn't understand what was really being said. And Saria hadn't either, but she was a child, and children repeated what their parents said and did. Lucina had always wished she could tell stories like Saria did. She could only imagine how hard it was for Saria, who understood better than anyone the theological weight all of this held, and who had at first been met with mistrust for just being from Plegia, not even factoring in her faith. And after all of that, Saria had every chance to denounce religion in its entirety, and hadn't. It had to have taken a lot of faith, and a lot of inner strength.  
  
"You know," Saria decided. "I don't care if everyone who decided on turning Grima into a bastardized power-grab is dead. Damn them."  
  
"Damn them," Lucina agreed. Saria smiled a little, reaching out in Lucina's general direction, a gesture that told Lucina to take her hand and guide it to where Lucina's cheek was. With her slender fingertips on Lucina's cheek, Saria kissed her just above there.  
  
"Well, we'll show them," she murmured. "When we get Naga to send us back into the past. We'll take your brother back, and we'll take Morgan, too. We'll stop this war before it begins— before our younger selves have to repeat what we did."  
  
Lucina let herself smile a little. It felt less like a distant hope and more like a certainty when Saria said it— she wasn't sure why. She shifted, putting her fingers through Saria's messy red hair and cradling the back of her head gently, kissing her just between her eyes. "Thank you, Saria. I think I needed to hear that."  
  
Saria's cheeks flushed pink in the lantern light. "Well, if it puts your mind at ease enough to get some sleep, and all. We can't have you collapsing during patrol, princess."  
  
Lucina smirked. "Nor you, princess."  
  
"Oh, hush," Saria pouted, lower lip sticking out. Lucina let out a girlish little chuckle and resisted the urge to kiss her. Though the lamplight reflecting off the surface of the ring caught Lucina's eye, and she paused.  
  
She reached over and picked it up, looking at the little thing in her curled hand. Saria noticed the way her breath shifted, and frowned. "Lucina? Is something wrong?"  
  
"Can I trust you to keep something safe for me, Saria?" she blurted. "I… I don't expect to die anytime soon, but in case I do, I… I want to leave something for you, so you don't forget me."  
  
Saria's face fell. "Oh, Luci, don't say that," she murmured, touching Lucina's face. "I'd never forget you!"  
  
"I want to give you something anyway," Lucina insisted, pressing the little ring on a golden chain into Saria's hand. With careful fingers, Saria picked it up and ran her fingers over the words engraved in it.  
  
"That's…" Saria whispered, eyes widening in surprise and recognition. "Mother told me about these! They were common in Plegia before her time… where did you get this?"  
  
"It was my mother's," Lucina admitted. "She gave it to me before… well."  
  
Lucina cleared her throat, a little awkwardly. "I-I know it seems quite a lot like a… a marriage proposal, but… I do want you to keep it. I'd feel better knowing it's in your hands."  
  
Saria was tracing the tiny words on the ring with amazement. "Strength and sacrifice… Lucina, this is a powerful phrase. Do you know what it says?"  
  
A little embarrassed, Lucina shrugged. "Mother never told me, but I knew she knew what it said."  
  
"'May the sacrifice of the panther strengthen the love of the wolf,'" Saria recited, taking a minute to let the proverb soak in. "That's heavy. I hope you know it's this kind of proverb that gets used in dark incantations."  
  
"I didn't know any of that," Lucina admitted. "Not about the proverb, or about the spell thing, or how powerful it may or may not be. I want you to have it."  
  
"I'll keep it safe," Saria promised, curling her hand around the ring and tucking it into the pocket of her shirt. "And I'll keep you safe, too."  
  
"That's my job," Lucina protested weakly, but Saria shushed her with a peck to the lips.  
  
"We keep each other safe, remember?" Saria teased, resting her head on Lucina's shoulder. "That's what partners means."  
  
Lucina hummed agreement, idly stroking Saria's hair. She was already starting to feel very drowsy, but it was a good kind of drowsy— the kind that came after accomplishing something you were trying very hard to do. Perhaps, if they managed to accomplish their goal, the ring would be something more than what Lucina had intended it to be— perhaps it would've been a promise ring, or even a marriage ring. But they could only wonder about it then.  
  
Lucina fell asleep then, tangled up with Saria on a pallet on the floor made of a few quilts, as starlight shone on them through the gauzy curtains of one of the windows of Marcus's safehouse.


	6. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps that was why Grima had taken him over so easily— Grima knew his friends were more loyal to Lucina than they were to Marcus. He knew the boy was so lonely, he'd take anyone's power if it meant people might pay a little more attention to him, treat him like something other than Lucina's kid brother.

Marcus, conversely, slept in a different spot every night. Usually the window seat in the Plegia Castle library, if Grima was in a decent mood. Honestly, the reason Marcus was even still alive was because of the part of Grima that was Robin was still fighting— and she'd kick His ass if her son's health ended up being run into the ground while he was out doing Grima's bidding. She made sure Grima let him sleep, let him get food from the kitchens, and didn't lay a hand on him at any point in time. (Oh, if Grima's soul made her raise a hand to her son, there would be hell to pay.) Robin missed being able to touch her son at all, but she couldn't risk Grima taking the opportunity to hurt him.  
  
And Marcus was a smart boy, so he had since figured this out. But he still had to do what Grima said, on the threat of Him hurting his mother. The three of them were at the worst kind of stalemate— Robin only let Grima inhabit her body because she'd made Grima swear not to hurt her son, Marcus only did Grima's bidding because he was certain Grima would hurt his mother if he didn't, and Grima wouldn't hurt Robin's body because the risk He'd irrevocably damage His vessel was too great.  
  
It was the kind of stalemate that was the reason Marcus could neither strike Grima down then and there or succumb to his fear. He'd never forgive himself if he cowered like the scared little boy he'd been eight years ago, but then, Grima wouldn't hesitate to hurt his mother if he were too outspoken.  
  
Grima's six red eyes had opened slits in his mother's skin, violet lines down her gray-toned face connecting them. They stared at him, framed on either side by the pale silvery color of her hair, down because He couldn't be bothered to put it up in Robin's signature hairstyle. Marcus noted with irony that he was taller than she now. But he could only stare past the creature that had stolen his mother's body, eyes stony as he fixated on the violet banners decorating Plegia Castle.  
  
"Fool boy," Grima hissed. "You mean to say that, _despite_ meeting the Ylisseans— and _all of them in one place at that_ — you failed to ascertain where they are staying and what their plan is?  
  
"I can't help what I do and do not hear, Lord Grima," Marcus said evenly. "When I checked where the told me they were staying, there was only an empty storehouse, and they did not tell me their plan at all." It was the truth— if anyone Marcus hadn't authorized walked into the area of the safehouse, they wouldn't find Lucina and her friends. Marcus never lied.  
  
Grima snarled, twisting his mother's lips into an ugly, scornful look, His face inches from Marcus. And yet, Grima couldn't touch him, lest He invoke Robin's wrath. The being known as Grima— though one that wasn't Grima, only using His name— was a powerful one, a being created solely to consume and use power, and yet He knew that if His vessel were to be sufficiently provoked, she could use that power to destroy the being using Grima's name, and then no one was sure what would happen. Dragon and woman had become very tightly linked, close enough that if Robin were to strike herself down, Grima would have no choice but to be killed as well.  
  
"I should kill you for this insolence," Grima growled, pacing coldly around Marcus's standing form before walking back to the Plegian throne. "And I would, boy, if your mother knew better. The both of you are fools, clinging the bond you have for one another."  
  
Marcus prickled, but forced himself to stay still. "Mother is stronger than you, Lord Grima. You are only inhabiting her body."  
  
In an instant, Grima flew back to Marcus, claws poised to strike him down, an expression of twisted anger and cruelty painted creepily across the face that was once his mother's alone. He stopped with a hand inches from Marcus's chest. Marcus did not flinch.  
  
"Such impudence," Grima rasped. And yet, although He wanted to kill Marcus, as He killed all who he deemed fit (as the true being that was Grima never did), He couldn't, because then Robin would kill Him.  
  
Grima was in an awfully foul mood. He put a hand to His neck idly, where the scar from when that man, the vessel's brother, had slashed Him with a lance, still remained. Of course Grima had killed him without a thought, but the fact that Rohan had been able to catch Grima by surprise like that did not sit well in the dragon's mind. He was all-powerful— it was impossible for a rogue vessel to truly kill Him.  
  
Robin's human blood boiled in veins Grima had siezed. "You're a false God," Robin hissed through the vocal chords they shared, her hand shaking as she clawed at her own neck. "Would a being with Grima's true power fear being killed? How cowardly."  
  
"Silence," Grima growled, mentally wrestling control back and prying Robin's hand off His neck, His nails sinking into her dark skin.  
  
"Don't you dare hurt her!" Marcus shouted. "Mother, please—" his voice broke. This was the closest she'd ever gotten to controlling Grima— the closest Marcus had ever come to getting his mother back.  
  
Grima let out an animal snarl. "Upstart wretch," he panted. Anger burned in His veins as hot as molten iron— but then He remembered, and His snarl twisted into a cruel rendition of a smile that made Marcus's blood run cold.  
  
"Fellblood child," He purred out, voice like a silver dagger down Marcus's spine. His eyes went wide, hands curling into fists, as Grima stepped down to the marble floor of the castle with newfound calmness. He reached out and touched Marcus's cheek, His fingers cold on the boy's clammy skin. "Why do you worry so for your demon mother, when you know I could control you just as well? After all, all your friends think you're a filthy traitor. What have you to lose?"  
  
Marcus couldn't answer. He felt his throat closing up as all of Grima's words rang metallic in his ears, and he knew it was true that Grima could control him, too. He had before, but Robin had stopped it— she wouldn't stand for any harm coming to her son.  
  
It was far too tempting to believe Grima when He said the others thought he was a traitor. No one had so much as flinched in his favor when he had succumbed to his Fellblood nature. Lucina had cried, like it was a horrible fate to be marked by Grima. He couldn't touch Nah, _his best friend,_ without the opposing natures of their patrons causing both of them pain. And all of the friends he'd thought were his, too, had no doubt distanced themselves from him until they saw him as nothing more than a traitor. And now Lucina had new friends, friends that really did know him as nothing more.  
  
Perhaps that was why Grima had taken him over so easily— Grima knew his friends were more loyal to Lucina than they were to Marcus. He knew the boy was so lonely, he'd take anyone's power if it meant people might pay a little more attention to him, treat him like something other than Lucina's kid brother.  
  
"You'll make me hurt them," he finally said. "And I won't let you do that, Lord Grima. I won't let you hurt my friends."  
  
Or his cousin, he added silently, because Grima didn't know about Morgan's existence and Marcus intended to keep it that way (and he'd ensured it). Morgan was Fellblood, too, and discovering yet another possible vessel would've been a field day for the Fell Dragon. At first Marcus had cursed his uncle for leaving Morgan scared and alone, hiding in an abandoned storehouse, but he had to admit that it might've been for the best. If Grima had discovered Morgan hiding in the castle, He wouldn't have hesitated to make her another servant, like He had Marcus. Marcus couldn't do anything for himself, but he could save Morgan.  
  
Grima sneered, removing His hand from Marcus's chin. "Fool boy," He muttered. "Perhaps one day you'll see the truth about power. Perhaps that day will be the day you will stop lying to me."  
  
Marcus stiffened. "I only tell the truth to you, Lord Grima."  
  
"Oh?" Grima said challengingly. "Then what is that in your pocket?"  
  
Grima outstretched His hand, and a painful ringing sounded through Marcus's head, warping his vision and making his knees buckle. He felt his gloved hand going to the pocket of his trousers and pulling out a small, round stone. It was about the size of a walnut, pearly white and opaque. Marcus recognized it immediately— Argent, one of the five Gemstones supposed to go on the Fire Emblem. They'd been in the Plegian Archives, since having them all in one place too near the palace made Grima's head ache, but it seemed Grima was rethinking that idea now. He rolled the pearly stone between His fingers, then clutched it in His palm.  
  
"You must be planning to give this to _them,"_ He remarked cooly, sticking it in His pocket. "That blasted Naga had a clever design. The Stones can't be destroyed, you know. But naturally, you can't perform the Awakening with only four of the Gemstones. I'll be taking this."  
  
Robin took that moment to wrestle control back from Grima. "Marcus, what were you thinking?" she demanded. "You'll get yourself killed, carrying things like that in your pocket! You—"  
  
"Silence!" Grima boomed, Robin's face contorting in what might've been pain. Marcus wanted to lunge forward and strike Grima down where He stood, but he'd be killing his mother in the process.  
  
Grima turned, the half of His face twitching like it was about to collapse. He sneered angrily, looking at Marcus like He wanted nothing more than to blast him to smithereens. Marcus had to steel his nerves to keep from snarling right back, or just bursting into tears.  
  
"Out of my sight, boy," Grima scoffed, turning on a heel. He was twitching, shaking, muttering curses under his breath— He and Robin were mentally sparring for control of Robin's body, which was always a terrifying sight. Robin's body simply couldn't take the strain, so it tried to tear itself apart, fighting itself as if the two beings inside each had a hand on the controls.  
  
Marcus knew better than to stick around, even if he desperately wanted to tell mother to not give up, Lucina and her friends were going to set things right— though right then, he urgently needed to give them the news that Grima had taken Argent. Of course they needed to know, and Marcus needed to know they knew. He could sense that his plan, a series of events he'd laid out carefully in a manner no one but he truly understood, was beginning to take fruit. But for it to be fully realized, he needed to be completely sure all the factors were in place.


	7. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We should get back," Saria mumbled, one hand resting on Lucina's pale shoulder where her tunic had been half-undone and tugged off the left side, but Lucina shook her head.
> 
> "Let them wonder," she replied. "We could die tomorrow. All I want, now, is you."

Grima rested at dusk and at dawn, when the sun was at its brightest on the horizon, so as twilight began to stretch the shadows of Dahiri to long, violet streaks, Marcus snuck out. Although there were no Risen or even stray Grimleal (because Grima had killed them all), Grima's eyes were everywhere, and Marcus had to be quick and careful. Resting, the eyes were simply easier to trick.  
  
Marcus had his hood covering his eyes and magic shrouding his movements, simply because he couldn't be too careful. It was taking up a lot of his energy to keep the shield around the safehouse up, but letting it down would really be betraying Lucina and her friends. He couldn't drop the shield, even for a second.  
  
As the safehouse came into view, Marcus lowered his hood. Noire was on sentry duty at that time, and her sharp eyes would see him before he saw her, giving him an arrow through the forehead before he could even react— if she didn't recognize him, that is. He gave a short wave, and Noire raised a hand in acknowledgement, ducking back into the house to give the news.  
  
"I need to see Lucina," he said within a breath of Morgan opening the door, leaning against the post. "I need— it's important. Where is she?"  
  
Morgan frowned. "You'd better come in," she said, judging the situation wisely for an eleven-year-old child. "I haven't seen Lucina in… an hour, maybe. I think she's downstairs. Did something happen? Did Grima…"  
  
She didn't need to finish. Marcus nodded gravely, stepping over the threshold and leaning against the front door, letting out a sigh. "Yeah, unfortunately, Grima did. He… well, I'd better tell everyone at once."  
  
"I'll get everyone together," Morgan decided with a solid nod. "You look for Lucina."  
  
Marcus cracked a smile. "Taking charge, huh?"  
  
Morgan smiled sheepishly. "Well, you said that's what tacticians do."  
  
He patted her head affectionately, messing up her already-messy hair. "Keep it up, then, cuz. You'll be a great tactician someday."  
  
Morgan beamed, and then dashed off to gather who of Lucina's friends she could find, soles of her sandals slapping on the clay floor.  
  
Naturally, since Marcus had hidden in it for ages before he'd even met Morgan, he knew the safehouse by heart. He knew the cellar that held sacks of grain and rice and crates full of fruit and vegetable preserves, the vacant empty back rooms that had once been studies and bedrooms, the half-covered stairway that led up to the overgrown garden on the sun-baked roof. The front room and its glorious central fireplace that spread warmth all through the room that was incredible to sleep next to after spending long nights in cold libraries, the little patch of yard out back fenced off with crumbling bricks, even the sole bathroom with a heater and a water pump that still worked.  
  
A lot of earlier memories of the place were lonely, being nine and a half years old and curling up in a corner and crying and wishing Lucina were there to hold him and tell him it was alright (even though he was there by his own choice, because he knew that if the Mark of Grima could make his _mother_ turn into a monster, there was no telling what it could make him do), or being eleven and just staring at the dying embers of a fire he'd started with the help of a tome and waiting for Grima to wake. At twelve he began using the cellar as a training space to teach himself dark magic (because if he had the Mark he might as well learn how to use the power it gave him). He remembered being fourteen and taking the crying little girl he'd found hiding in a storehouse because her dad had said to stay there until he came back (and he'd promised to come back, but he never did) into his safehouse and promising she'd be alright because he was going to take care of her, without realizing just how much he'd channeled Lucina in that moment.  
  
And now he was sixteen and Morgan was eleven, and his sister and her friends were back and didn't seem to hate him, but _gods_ he'd missed them so much, and wished he'd explained why he left before he had— but he'd been eight, and couldn't articulate the exact reason he'd distanced himself. Perhaps he might've thought that if he had Grima's blood, Grima might accept him, in the way that anyone else hadn't.  
  
Marcus wasn't a stranger to loneliness. Maybe that was why he'd been so set on making sure Morgan was.  
  
His boots tapped on the cold clay stairs to the cellar with practiced agility— one didn't get far sneaking around an all-seeing diety by being a clumsy walker, after all. He squinted in the dark, but he could see decently in it by now, and then, the faint orange glow of a lantern didn't hurt.  
  
He ventured forwards, determined to find his sister— because, even after all he'd tried to distance himself for fear of hurting her, she still was.  
  
By now, it was far from an extraordinary happenstance that Lucina vanished for hours on end. She'd say something vague about research or checking inventory, and then no one would be able to find her until she turned up when it was her turn for sentry duty or mealtime. Oftentimes her hair would be mussed, ties on her tunic hastily redone, armor uneven and cheeks slightly flushed, and although a few eyebrows were raised, no one said anything. Perhaps they hadn't caught on, since Saria always returned separately (though in a similarly dishevled state), or perhaps hadn't said anything. Saria was sure they'd get caught in the act one day, though Lucina was confident they'd be able to keep their occasional little rendezvous a secret.  
  
The cellar, back in the corner behind a stack of crates, was far from the most comfortable place to do such a thing, but comfort and war hardly went together. Lucina made no excuses for how close she and Saria were then, pressed together like their very lives depended on it, simply because she didn't think anyone else was around.  
  
Lucina's arms were tucked around Saria's waist, lips resting at her collarbone just above the neckline of her undershirt, eyes closed. For the moment she was merely content to exist there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Saria's breathing, the faint light of the lantern flickering through her eyelids. It was a rare moment of peace, a spare pocket of time where they could cave, just for a bit, to the desires of youth. It was natural, in such a trying time, to want to find solace with another living, breathing person.  
  
Saria was saying something, her voice quiet in the cellar, but Lucina wasn't processing. Whatever it was sounded like a pleasant hum— she could very well have been reading dictionary entries and Lucina wouldn't have cared.  
  
"Mm," she murmured when the pause came, her thoughts hazy. "You should keep talking, I think. Your voice is so lovely."  
  
Whatever Saria said sounded mildly indignant her arms around Lucina's neck, but Lucina just hummed and tucked her nose further under Saria's chin.  
  
"Mm-hmm," she agreed, a soft smile playing across her features. "I love you."  
  
She felt Saria sigh, and didn't have it in her to care. She was pleasantly sleepy and hormone-addled and in love, and every time they did this she had to think to herself, again, how nice a bit of contact felt.  
  
Saria's dress had been unbuttoned and the top half lay in a pool around her waist, a hand resting on Lucina's cheek. Lucina had leaned into the touch, clumsily kissing whatever she could reach, her lips flush against Saria's skin. _I love you_ was embedded into every kiss, every touch, every half-word Lucina managed to make. In another world, Lucina was sure, they'd have whole days to spend with no one but each other if they wanted, where they could turn fits of hormone-crazed kissing and touching into lazy hours filled with simply being there. Making that a reality was one of the reasons Lucina still fought— she longed for times when she could simply forget about the rest of the world, because _her_ world fit neatly in her arms.  
  
"We should get back," Saria mumbled, one hand resting on Lucina's pale shoulder where her tunic had been half-undone and tugged off the left side, but Lucina shook her head.  
  
"Let them wonder," she replied. "We could die tomorrow. All I want, now, is you."  
  
A soft sound escaped Saria's mouth, and Lucina felt her breath hitch beneath her lips. She liked to imagine Saria biting her lip then, just slightly, eyes shut in bliss while Lucina ran her lips up her neck to just under her ear, nipping just a little at the sensitive spots there. Her lips and tongue and teeth will leave red marks that fade to violet on Saria's skin, that Saria will cover with her scarf and her armor and perhaps a bandage, if necessary.  
  
"Gods, Lucina," Saria murmured, her tongue clumsy, as Lucina traced the shape of Saria's waist, her hand separated from skin by a layer of thin fabric. One of the straps had fallen askew, resting on Saria's bare shoulder, but neither of them could be further from caring.  
  
Lucina kissed her again, her mouth going to Saria's ear, nose burying itself in the messy red hair freed from the usual golden scarf that kept it back from her face. Saria had her hands on Lucina's cheeks, but Lucina moved her hand up to lace her fingers with Saria's as the other rested on her waist. She moved her hand down, slowly, caressing her hip but not planning on keeping it there.  
  
"Lucina," Saria mumbled again, the tremble in her voice like music to Lucina's ears. There was a sense of urgency in it, a sese of want, and Lucina could feel it in the way Saria's hand tightened around Lucina's. "Gods, Lucina…"  
  
"What is it?" Lucina asked, earnest and eager to please, entirely too obliging for one currently being handed control on a platter. "Should I stop?"  
  
Saria moved her head away from Lucina's lips, tilted her chin to be even with Lucina's, pressed their foreheads together. Her cheeks were flushed, a thin layer of sweat beading on her forehead, and she'd been biting at her lower lip. Lucina could smell the gritty brown soap they used that had no odor but itself, the distinctive tang of pemmican in her breath, the tingling aura of magic running just beneath her skin, with their faces so close. Her lips, Lucina knew, held the taste of paint and ashes and a little bit of black tea.  
  
"Just kiss me, you idiot princess," she whispered, closing the gap between them, the flavors of her lips washing over Lucina's tongue. It was as electric as the jagged, magical edges of Saria's sword, no longer nervous and trembling like the shy kisses of young girls exploring their preferences, and stretching just past the sweet and loving territory into passionate, raw, unrestrained— almost needy, as if they'd melt away into nothing if they couldn't kiss just a little harder, get just a little closer, as if they'd be ripped away from each other if they let go for even a second.  
  
Lucina's voice then— _Oh, Saria_ — was almost a moan as Saria pulled control back, urging the pace forwards towards territory Lucina still refused to allow herself to think about. When it got that far, typically the pace alternated— sometimes it was tender and slow, sweet but unmistakably passionate when Lucina devoted what felt like hours to pleasuring Saria, and sometimes it was no less passionate or loving but faster, almost desperate, quick bouts of burning passion behind columns or trees when Saria simply _could not_ take their being separated by a veneer of professionality and composure. Their breaths would harmonize, skin pressed together like they could melt into one another and become something new then, layers of cloth and leather between them growing fewer as time wore on, as the world shrunk to just the two of them and the pitch of their whispers and hums, for nothing else truly mattered as long as they were _together._  
  
"Mm… we should head back," Saria mumbled, her lips finding the corner of Lucina's mouth. Her words said they should stop before someone went looking for them, but the way her hand was gripping Lucina's said the opposite. _Stay with me. Kiss me harder. Hold me tighter._  
  
"We have time," Lucina mumbled back. "Gods, you're so beautiful."  
  
Saria made a sound that could've been a low moan, Lucina's hand tracing up and back down her figure, coming to rest on her thigh. Lucina almost moved it in, just a little, but something crashed in the background, cutting through the fuzzy violet haze of hormone-addled passion like a cold knife. It was a sound that made both Lucina and Saria snap upright, caught red-handed succumbing to mortal pleasures. Lucina's face was red as a beet, and Saria tugged the loose top half of her dress back up futily.  
  
Marcus froze beside the crate he'd bumped into, staring at his sister and _apparently_ his sister-in-law with the wide eyes of someone decidedly unused to seeing such brazen displays of affection. "J-jeez, if I'd known _this_ was what you were up to, I wouldn't have bothered looking," he sputtered, blocking his vision with outstretched fingers as if warding off what had been a display of earthly desire. "Exactly how long have you been at it? Are you married, or something?" The poor boy had just found his sister, and there she was, like the world was saved and the most important thing was sucking face.  
  
Saria was the first to recover, face still flushed as she pushed her arms back through her sleeves. "If that's all you need for it, we would've been married a long time ago," she snipped.  
  
_"Saria,"_ Lucina groaned, burying her face in her hands.  
  
"Well, I'm not wrong." Saria let out a huff, feeling for her headband and tying it back around her head. Lucina cleared her throat, pulling her tunic back into place. She felt rather naked without her armor, despite the fact that technically, she was fully clothed.  
  
"Did something happen, Marcus?" she asked. After all, he had to have been there for a reason.  
  
Marcus dropped his hands and nodded gravely, seeming several years older than the boy that had squirmed upon accidentally seeing _kissing._ "I thought I should tell everyone at once, which includes you— though I _guess_ if you're too busy, I can brief you on it later and you can keep trying to eat your girlfriend's face." He was obviously miffed about the fact that when he finally found his sister for this important news, she was hiding behind a stack of crates half-undressed with another girl in a similar state. He supposed he was lucky it hadn't gone any further.  
  
"Oh, we'll get to that later," Saria mumbled as Lucina pushed herself to her feet and offered a hand, making Lucina flush once more and falter. Marcus didn't understand quite what Saria meant by that, but he guessed it was another gross thing like whatever it was they were doing.  
  
But that aside, Lucina did her best to get back into the proper form before Marcus led her into the main room, where everyone else had already gathered. Fourteen pairs of eyes watched intently as Marcus stood up at the front, shuffling a little and clearing his throat. Lucina stood at the front of the captive audience, while Saria had a smirk on her face that said 'why yes, I _did_ just make out with our commander, and yes, this is not the first time such a thing has happened, and no, it won't be the last.'  
  
Marcus tugged at his wrist guards as he tried to figure out how to start. How had mother done it? Clearly only having an evil embodiment of a dark dragon god, one's blissfully-ignorant younger cousin, and one's mother that was still trapped within the dragon god and only occasionally managed to fight her way out for company did not do wonders for his social skills. "Uh, hi," he began, for lack of anything else. "So, ah, I don't have much time to explain, but I thought all of you would like to know that there's a little bit of a hiccup in your plan— er, the one to find the Five Gemstones and perfom the Awakening and somehow get sent back to the past to set things right, right? That plan? Yeah, er, there's sort of an issue. Funny story, actually."  
  
Awkward silence, except for the crackling of the fire and Marcus's nervous chuckling. Sixteen pairs of eyes glanced at each other, and then back to Marcus. _Neato burrito,_ he thought, the first ever time he's done something resembling public speaking and he flubs it.  
  
"What sort of issue?" Lucina prompted. "That's what you're here to talk about, isn't it?"  
  
"Right, the issue," Marcus said quickly. "Well, ah… I found Argent, and I was going to give it to you, but… well. Grima found me out, and took it. So that's a problem."  
  
It was a problem. A murmer went through the group— how were they going to retrieve it? Would Grima try to take the other Gemstones, too? What had He done with Argent? Except for Morgan, who still didn't know what was going on, everyone was wondering just how that would affect their previous plan. They hadn't even solidly located any of the others. This was worrisome.  
  
"Can you steal it back?" someone— Cynthia, from the sound of their voice— piped up. "While Grima isn't paying attention?"  
  
"Are you crazy? He'll kill me!" Marcus said without thinking. He'd been mouthy, sure, and he had openly snuck around Grima before, and Grima had no choice but to take it or else Robin would destroy Him, but Marcus couldn't be sure what such direct subversion would do. He'd seen Grima kill waves of Grimleal just because they didn't seem as loyal to Him as they could be, and much as he wished he could say he was desensitized to it by now, it still scared him.  
  
"How do we know Grima won't just destroy it?" someone else— Inigo— brought up. "Those things are small, it'd be easy, wouldn't it?"  
  
"The Five Gemstones are unbreakable, even by Naga Herself," a third someone that could only be Laurent answered for Marcus. "They were created that way. Not even Grima's power could shatter them."  
  
Lucina let out a pensive sigh. "Even if we _do_ locate the Fire Emblem and the other Gemstones, there's no guarantee the Emblem itself isn't damaged somehow. But we can't simply give up because of one obstacle."  
  
"Well, it is a pretty big obstacle," Marcus brought up, shrugging. "There are a lot of factors involved— _if_ you find the rest of the Gemstones, _if_ you can locate the Fire Emblem, _if_ you can manage to get Argent back from Grima, _if_ you even survive the encounter, _if_ you can make the trip to Mount Prism, _if_ you somehow find a substitute for Naga with the capability to perform the Awakening, _if_ it even works, _if_ you can even get sent back, and then _if_ you even succeed at all in the other timeline— jeez, it's like you're _trying_ to get killed! And trust me, I know what that looks like."  
  
Morgan raised her little hand like she was in a classroom. "Well, then, maybe it's time to even the odds, like my dad used to say. And… if Lucina thinks it's possible, I want to help."  
  
"Of course it's possible," Lucina insisted, resting a hand on Falchion's hilt. "Anything is possible. If what we're doing isn't, we'd have all been dead long ago. I suppose some would say it's fate that we do this— but it's fate that we'll change. I can feel it." She could practically _see_ it— as if the Brand of Naga in her eye had given her a coherent vision instead of a string of images, for once.  
  
A nod of agreement went through the room, and it was then Marcus saw the real difference between himself and Lucina. She could inspire a group of bedraggled adolescents that had never gotten the chance to be children to keep fighting, keep trying, keep getting up in the morning and looking to the sky instead of to the ground, even though every last one of them had been doing that since they could lift a weapon and honestly just wanted it all to stop. She saw that they needed someone to follow, something to believe in, and stepped into that role and tried her best to fill it. She was a leader, like father had been. Perhaps that was why Naga chose her.  
  
"We'll get all the Gemstones," Lucina decided, her voice sounding stronger than she'd have thought possible. "We'll find the Fire Emblem. We'll travel to Mount Prism, and we'll simply have to _make_ whatever power answers send us back. We'll turn all of those _ifs_ into _whens,_ and we'll win our future back. We'll win it, so those little versions of us, back then, can get the future they deserve!"  
  
The atmosphere of the room shifted from apprehensive to hopeful, just with Lucina's speech. Gerome lifted a fist into the air, and everyone followed the gesture in a salute— to Lucina, to their friends, to their parents, to the future they'd save, to the real Naga and Grima. When Lucina glanced over, Marcus was doing it, too. He'd cracked a smile, eyes glinting a bit behind shaggy cobalt hair, and Lucina's eyes shone. He had nearly forgotten what hope felt like, and it burned strange in his chest, but it was a strangeness he embraced.


	8. Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thought about Marcus, and wished she still had the ability to cry.

Contrary to what some may believe, being the vessel for a being with godlike power was not particularly enjoyable in any respects— the ever-present gnawing hunger pains being the least of the problems.  
  
Since joining Chrom and the Shepherds, Robin had done her best to distance herself from Plegia. She kept telling herself nothing good ever came from that place, despite knowing the opposite. Plegia and its people were as kind and worth saving as Ylisse, and it had been given a bad name to the Ylisseans after generations of dichotomizing and badmouthing and thirsting for power had dug a rift between two countries that were so similar, but differently aligned.  
  
She had cried exactly twice in front of her children. The first time was of happiness when Lucina showed the Brand of the Exalt— of hope she was free of Grima's blood. The second was of fear when Marcus showed the Mark of the Grimleal.  
  
Of course, the being currently occupying her body wasn't the real Grima. This was a twisted, bastardized caricature given Grima's name by fanatics that misconstrued the point of Grimleal and used the name to hurt people— this creature was born from the pain the cultists inflicted, the suffering the name of Grimleal had caused. And yet it thought itself a god because it had killed Naga, despite the fact that the true Grima wouldn't have been able to. And thus, the world was thrown into chaos, lacking the balance Naga and Grima provided each other.  
  
She only wished her children hadn't been thrown into it.  
  
There was a battle inside Robin's mind, between her consciousness and the invading presence of the creature. It had no image, really, but if asked, Robin would take her stick of charcoal and scribble on the parchment until the stick broke or the paper tore, and the resulting black blob would be the closest she could get to visually representing this creature that wasn't Grima. The battle was constant, and her body would react— she'd claw at her face or her neck, tug at her hair, dig her hands into her sides. She'd shake violently, hit walls so hard they cracked, slam her feet into the ground as if the impact would rid her poor body of the strain the battle in her mind put on it. It scared Marcus, seeing her argue with herself and literally try to tear herself apart, but Robin wouldn't have been able to live with herself if he'd had to deal with this creature.  
  
Robin's fist hit the wall, loud as the clap of thunder overhead. Grima, it seemed, was angry.  
  
"The boy lies," He hissed, His voice coming out of her throat and making her sound like there was three of her speaking. "How foolish."  
  
"My son doesn't lie," Robin said evenly, in her own voice. "He's clever. He knows what you really are."  
  
"Silence!" Grima shouted, tugging at her hair with one hand while Robin reflexively grabbed that wrist with the other. Robin hissed at the pain, though she couldn't say she wasn't used to it at this point. "I ought to kill him. I'd kill you both!"  
  
"You won't," Robin replied, venom in her words.  
  
Grima snarled, an inhuman sound Robin hadn't realized her voice could make. Robin's shoulders shook, the side of her head slamming into the castle wall in Grima's frustration. Her vision danced with stars, knees shaking— this violent dance for control over one body had been going on for years, even before what Lucina and her friends called the End Days, and it was unlikely her body would be able to take much more.  
  
Thunder rumbled and Robin's head screamed in pain. She thought about Marcus, asleep on the faded silk cushions of the window seat in the library, his head on an open book, his body curled because he'd grown too tall to lie flat and still be covered by the quilt Robin had put there in a moment of full control over her body, years ago when he was just a child and she was still coming to terms with the fact that she could no longer hold him. She thought about Marcus, and wished she still had the ability to cry.  
  
Robin noticed she had fallen, her back pressed to the stone wall and the floor hard beneath her knees. She stood up, ignoring the way her head pounded and her bruised knees ached, and began to walk.  
  
"Stop that," Grima demanded, and Robin's feet halted. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Marcus is afraid of thunderstorms," Robin said levelly, in a way that was more powerful than anything Grima could muster consciously. "I'm going to check on him, and you're going to let me."  
  
And for once, Grima did.  
  
Now, Marcus had mastered the art of pretending to be asleep in case Grima ever walked into the library, since it wasn't quite lying. He'd memorized the uneven shuffle his mother's boots made when Grima was in control— because mother never stopped fighting.  
  
Tonight, as he lay with his head on his arms in the library, pretending the thunder and rain were just special effects and they'd be gone soon, the footsteps were steady, the creaking open of the door quiet and careful.  
  
He hadn't registered how awful it was that he wasn't used to his mother's affectionate touch, but when she sat down on the cushion next to him, set a hand on his shoulder as she tugged a quilt over him, it felt foreign. Recieving those touches was different from administering them, as he'd found while taking care of Morgan.  
  
His mother was humming in a voice that was definitely hers, a lullaby that he heard over the rain and the thunder he'd always hated. He'd deny that he was afraid of it, of course.  
  
"Why," he heard the voice of Grima growl, though his mother's touch didn't falter. "Why do you continue?"  
  
"He's my son," his mother replied softly. "He didn't ask to be born. He didn't ask to be thrown into a world like this, either. None of the children did. And he's scared of thunder. It's loud, and he doesn't like the way it takes him by surprise. I'm his mother, whether you're here or not, so I have to be there for him. A mother will do whatever is best for her children."  
  
Grima went silent as his mother's soft hands pushed strands of hair out of his face. Perhaps that was why he wasn't quite so scared of thunder anymore— during thunderstorms was one of the only times Grima would stay back enough that Robin could take control and dare to reach out and touch her son.  
  
She kissed his head gently. "I love you," she whispered, tucking the quilt around him before standing back up, giving his shoulder one last little pat.  
  
Marcus listened to her leave, the sensation of her comforting hands still tingling in his being, as he listened to her retreating footsteps grow more uneven. He pretended he couldn't hear the dull thudding and muffled shouts, and instead listened to the rain.  
  
Mother, he remembered, had always loved the rain.


	9. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why?" Morgan frowned, taking a defensive step back. "Where's my dad?"
> 
> Oh, and of course he'd have to be the one to tell her. But it wasn't like he could back out— could he really leave her like that, alone and scared and confused, in good conscience?

It was 1436— Marcus didn't know about the date specifically, but it was sometime in the spring. He vaguely remembered turning fourteen not long before, but there was little point in celebrating it when there was no one to celebrate with. Unsurprisingly, Grima was not the greatest party guest.  
  
Though as Marcus recalled, it'd been quite some time since he'd seen a living, breathing human being. His mother's body didn't count, since it was posessed by Grima half the time and looked more like a Risen than a human being, and Marcus wasn't much better. Every time he looked in the mirror, he had to think about what a sight he was— sure, most boys his age had dirty hair and rampant acne, but he doubted many had clammy skin and sunken cheeks and dark blue shadows under their eyes. All he needed was glowing red eyes and acid breath, and he'd look just like one of those walking corpses.  
  
But Rohan— Rohan had obviously spent most of his life _not_ being a vessel of Grima. Looking at him, Marcus could imagine what his mother would look like if Grima hadn't posessed her. She'd be tall and healthy, with sun-kissed skin the deep coppery brown commonplace in Plegia. Her smile wouldn't look like a grimace, wouldn't hide the inner battle with an angry snarl of magic and greed. Marcus wished he could imagine what that looked like.  
  
But Marcus could only watch the battle— a face-off between Rohan and Grima in Robin's body. They battled in the throne room, or what had once been the throne room, since it didn't actually have a throne in it at all. Rohan was not a warrior (he was an apothecary, he'd said so himself, and Grima had laughed at him), but he held his ground like one, using his superior physical health to counter Grima's raw power. Grima could only move as fast as Robin's body could, after all, and Robin's body was not in the best condition.  
  
"Boy, this takes me back," Rohan chuckled, once a lull in the battle hit. He wiped a stream of blood off his face and examined the red smear it left on his coat, then put his hand back on the hilt of his sword. "Right, sis? Though you weren't quite so peaked in our sparring sessions."  
  
"Insolence," Grima snarled, shooting a bolt of magic at Rohan once more. "You dare speak to me that way?"  
  
Rohan rolled out of the way, though he took a second to admire the trench the bolt of magic had carved in the marble floor. "Hey, you stop that. That's my kid sister's mouth you're speaking through."  
  
Grima mumbled something, face twitching. Rohan took that opportunity to run up and slash again— an attack Grima dodged. It kept going like that for a long time, where Grima would attack and miss, and Rohan would do the same, exchanging blows alongside two halves of a conversation. Neither party could land a hit on the other, and Marcus began to wonder if that was on purpose. Was he trying to tire Grima out? Did he really think that would even work?  
  
Marcus found out when Rohan's sword dug a gash between Robin's neck and shoulder, a cut that was too shallow to gush but deep enough to seep dark blood into her coat and shirt. Marcus wanted to jump out and defend his mother right then and there— but Rohan wasn't fighting Robin, he was fighting Grima.  
  
Grima snarled and grabbed a fistful of Rohan's shirt, slamming him against the ground with strength Robin shouldn't have had. If life were a book or movie, Grima would've gloated or something, given Rohan time to turn Grima's strength against Him and save the day— because here, Rohan was the hero and Grima was the villain. But that didn't happen, and Rohan's life ended with a bolt of magic through his chest.  
  
Grima stood back up and dusted off His hands, sneering at Rohan's body. "Weak," he growled. "Boy. Take care of it."  
  
"Do it yourself," Marcus muttered, slouching in his alcove. But nonetheless, he dragged Rohan's body out of the throne room and somewhere Grima wouldn't bother with it.  
  
The next three days were suspiciously quiet. On the fourth, Marcus found a little girl.  
  
It was a little like finding a hungry squirrel in your pantry— Of course it didn't belong there (that was _your_ food, damn it), but at the same time, was it really doing that much harm? It needed to eat, too. Of course, finding a human child in a similar situation was a little different.  
  
That particular moment gave Marcus pause for thought. If he were the same sweet little boy he'd been five years previous, he likely would've tried to befriend the girl he'd found in one of his storehouses, and subsequently share it with her. (Although if that were the case, he would have bigger things to worry about— perhaps the one too many knocks to the head he'd no doubt recieved in that particular situation.)  
  
As it was, though, his first instinct was to kill her. More than likely Grima would order him to anyway, if He'd paid any attention at all, and it probably would've been better off in the long run. Of course it would've been far too easy— after awhile, being able to end someone's life with the wave of a hand got unbearably dull. But then he'd have to hear Grima bark about it and just have to go through the effort anyway, so procrastinating wouldn't be worth it anyway.  
  
Perhaps, then, it was lucky that Marcus still possessed a sliver of empathy.  
  
The girl stared at him, wide-eyed, little hand inches from a paper-wrapped package of cured meat. It made him feel bad he'd even considered killing her— what sort of monster was he to think of something so pointlessly cruel? It'd be like kicking a puppy while it was sleeping. He wouldn't even get anything in return.  
  
She stared at him. Marcus stared back.  
  
"Who are you?" he finally asked.  
  
"Who are you?" the girl repeated, folding her arms as if someone had taught her how to get away with stealing despite being caught red-handed.  
  
"I asked you first," Marcus said despite knowing full well it was somewhat childish.  
  
"I asked you second," the girl retorted. Marcus narrowed his eyes— he remembered saying that exact thing at that age, and giggling like it was a spectacular joke. Was he really that annoying? No, he knew he was— were _all_ children really that annoying? What a pain.  
  
"Listen, kid," Marcus sighed. "I don't have time to play silly games. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"  
  
The girl retracted her hand and fiddled with the hood of her coat. "Morgan. My dad said to stay here while he went to the castle. Who are you?"  
  
It hit him— she could only be Rohan's daughter. Who else was there? Marcus buried his face in one gloved hand, letting out a groan into the leather. He could tell already that he'd end up taking this girl under his wing, so to speak. Grima would probably kill her, or worse, and he couldn't just let her wander around alone. This was entirely his own doing, but it was still kind of a pain.  
  
"I'm Marcus," he said with a sigh of resignation. "Listen, you'd… better come with me."  
  
"Why?" Morgan frowned, taking a defensive step back. "Where's my dad?"  
  
Oh, and of _course_ he'd have to be the one to tell her. But it wasn't like he could back out— could he really leave her like that, alone and scared and confused, in good conscience?  
  
With the decision that he couldn't, Marcus sat down with her then, and told her everything. It might've been because Morgan reminded him of himself, a little bit— she didn't understand half of what was going on, but she'd been thrown into it anyway, with no choice but to acclimate. He remembered what that was like. Of course, he'd had to acclimate to causing widespread death and destruction, but the principle was similar.  
  
Morgan, he soon realized, would make a perfect pawn.  
  
It sounded sort of awful, but she would. As long as she stayed beneath Grima's notice, she could be the catalyst Marcus needed for his half-baked plan to work. Though he couldn't help but think there had to be some way to ensure it— since a pawn, when directly confronted, couldn't attack. If Morgan was discovered, it was over.  
  
And then Marcus had an idea.  
  
Magic, at its core, wasn't terribly difficult to understand. Even divine magic was just another form of energy. Energy didn't come from nothing, so if you understood _exactly_ where to hit, you could sever the flow of energy that people knew as magic. Naga's magic could be used to block Grima's, as light magic blocked dark and vice versa, but that wasn't an option.  
  
The annoying thing about divine energy was that it was so insanely powerful, it was impossible to hold it all in one place. Places like shrines and temples, as such, held a fraction of that energy, and all the magical leylines in the world branched out from there. As such, if Marcus were going to make a magical seal, he had to start at the core.  
  
And the core of divine magic was in the symbols.  
  
It'd taken some experimentation. The seal itself was symmetrical, as seals should be, and looked as if he'd taken the Brand of Naga and the Mark of Grima, layered them on top of one another, and crossed out specific places. He'd carved it into the back of an old book first and dropped it in the middle of the castle hallway. When Grima tripped over it and cursed over His vessel's clumsiness, Marcus went bigger.  
  
A crate was next. Then a chair. Then the back of a couch. Each time, Grima didn't even see it— and each time, Marcus felt a feeling of absolute elation. It'd been ages since he'd been so _excited_ about anything! He had the urge to shout _Eureka_ when Grima stumbled right into the couch in the middle of the hallway and snarled in frustration, slashing blindly at something He couldn't even see. Marcus was cackling madly in his head for the rest of the day.  
  
Marcus fondly referred to his final product as his Talisman— since, in a sense, that was what it was. He tied it around Morgan's neck in a sturdy knot, loose enough to hang at the top of her sternum but not to where she could pull it off over her head.  
  
Morgan, he thought to himself, was a pawn. And in the bizarre chess game he and Grima were playing without truly acknowledging of it, one pawn could mean the difference between a win and a loss.


	10. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll always be partners," Saria promised, pressing her lips to Lucina's cheek. "But, I mean— who am I to say what the future holds? You're the one with prophecy."
> 
> He let out an amused hum. "Yes, but it's only ever useful in the moment. If I could know when this would all end, that'd be quite nice. But I suppose I can't have my cake and eat it, too."

_May the sacrifice of the panther strengthen the love of the wolf._  
  
The words were violet. When Saria touched them, violet was the color that crackled in her mind. They made her fingertips tingle like when she held her sword too close, and though she was sure they were the same metal as the rest of the ring, they were indisputably violet. That was just how it worked.  
  
The words were violet in the same way the sun made the windows of the house glow yellow, the way the orange smell of that day's dinner twirled lazily through the air, the way the soft quilt Saria was sitting on was a faded, watery blue, and the way the rough metal of cheap blades was teal. It was the way Saria saw the world— everything had a color, whether or not it had a visual color at all. She wasn't quite sure how she did it.  
  
"They're just words," acidic pink sparked and fizzed to her left. Severa was pink in the same way the words on the ring were violet. "Do you _really_ think that pretty little phrases can tell the future?"  
  
Saria felt herself frown as the pink sparks faded. Words that hue felt almost caustic, a corrosive kind of snark with intent to be dismissive. Severa had mastered changing her color to the sparking, bubbling pink one would find in an experimental potion, though Saria had seen her in softer shades of rose before. Severa rarely meant to truly wound with her crystalline fuchsia— if she did, she would have.  
  
"It isn't that I think proverbs tell the future," Saria tried to explain, her own violet voice blooming in the picture. "But I have a feeling about this one. It means something."  
  
Pink sparked again with Severa's sigh. "What does it mean, then? That someone's going to be sacrificed? I could've told you that. And that's if it _were_ prophetic— which it isn't."  
  
"Well, if it _were_ prophetic," Saria brought up. "'Sacrifice' probably wouldn't be so literal. Prophecy is hardly ever literal. That's just the way it is."  
  
Severa scoffed, and pink fizzed. "That's stupid. But, okay, if it _were_ prophetic— which it isn't— and if the wolf and panther _did_ represent people— which they don't— Lucina would definitely be the wolf."  
  
A violet chuckle bubbled out of Saria's throat. "And that would make me the panther, then? If it _were_ prophetic—"  
  
Fuchsia crackled over the violet blooms of Saria's voice. "Which it isn't! But what else could it possibly mean? It did say 'love,' you know."  
  
"Oh, wonderful." Saria sighed with a purple tendril. "I'll be sacrificed for love. I wish I knew what 'sacrifice' in this context actually meant. That would help a lot."  
  
"Maybe you're _not_ the panther, then," Severa joked. "Maybe it's— oh— a bug or something. Can you imagine a cricket sacrificing its life so Lucina will live?" She snorted— pink flared.  
  
Saria had to chuckle. It was a little funny— a bug being the panther instead of anyone they knew. Though she did have to wonder if Severa wasn't on to something. What if Saria wasn't the panther? What if it was someone they didn't even know? There were multiple types of love, after all.  
  
"That's how it works in the books," a lilac voice chimed in. "You think that someone's going to be a given role— but they're not, and it's the last person you'd expect. Like the evil queen being the king's step-sister! That twist gets me every time."  
  
Severa scoffed in a corrosive pink. "This isn't one of your stupid fairytales, Cynthia," she snipped. "We don't live in a book, in case you forgot!"  
  
"But fiction is inspired by real-life circumstance," Cynthia insisted. Saria felt lavender and pink pushing against one another. "Come on, it's a classic set-up. Saria is the obvious choice to be the panther. You think, 'duh, of _course_ the panther is gonna be Saria, it's about love!' but then the writer comes around the back with a twist, and the panther ends up being, like… I don't know. We probably haven't met them."  
  
"You're delusional," Severa snapped. "Gods, grow up for once, will you? This isn't one of Owain's stupid creative writing projects, or whatever."  
  
Cynthia let out a snort. "You know, if this _were_ a book, everyone would have an animal attached to them."  
  
"Really," Severa drawled. "Fascinating."  
  
"Yep," Cynthia said sagely. "And, Saria, guess what Sev would be?"  
  
Saria chuckled. "What would Severa be, Cynthia?"  
  
"Don't encourage her!" Severa groaned— but Cynthia was undeterred.  
  
From the way the pitch of her voice changed, Saria heard her leaning closer with every word, lilac voice glittering with innocent mischief. "A big, mean cat! The kind that thinks she's soooo above everyone, when she's really not."  
  
Saria giggled at that. Cynthia had a point— if Severa were any animal, she'd be a cat. Haughty and unpleasant to be around, perhaps, but _very_ clever.  
  
"Oh, very funny," Severa drawled. "Ha ha! And I suppose _you'd_ be a weak little sparrow that can't even fly right, and just hops around and squawks at everyone! Cats eat sparrows like that, you know."  
  
"They have to catch 'em first!" Cynthia had jumped up, bursting with lavender energy. She leaned over and poked Severa in the nose playfully, then darted away, cackling in excited bubbles of lavender.  
 "Why, you—" Severa sputtered, as if she were taking being poked in the nose as a challenge. She darted after Cynthia, creating the orangey sound of running footsteps on stone floors, up the stairs and presumably to the roof. The pink and lilac faded to a fuzzy darkness that never lasted long, with the rest of the sounds and colors and smells that filled Saria's mind.  
  
The orange crackle of the ever-going fire was the loudest, once Severa and Cynthia left. Its steady sound coated the rest of her perception, making everything feel warmer, even if it was cool to the touch. The more golden orange scent of that day's dinner mingled with the sharp green of medicine and charcoal gray of smoke from the hearth. She heard indistinct voices that formed a muted buzz of colors. Somewhere in there was Laurent's pale blue murmuring something with Gerome's sandy brown, and Owain's gold-tinged theatrics in what may have once been a backyard, punctuated by the terra cotta orange of Morgan's enthusiastic shouts. There was Brady's yellow and Inigo's mauve arguing about dinner, because Inigo wanted to try something a little more _sophisticated_ but Brady was rapidly winning with the valid points that they had several hungry mouths to feed and they _don't have the ingredients for a damn marinade_ anyway, _twinkle toes!_ If she listened hard, she could still hear Severa and Cynthia teasing each other as Saria was sure sisters did, despite not being biologically related. On a quieter tier was Nah's satiny white presence, Noire's dark crimson, Yarne's soft grey, Kjelle's tough brown. The clear teal of Marti's voice bubbled up every now and again, but never terribly loud; quietest of all was the shadowy indigo of Ke'tu standing as everyone's silent guard. And Lucina's steadfast cobalt blue was somewhere in the safehouse; perhaps practicing forms with tireless dedication on the roof, or scanning the horizon from the top of the watchtower, or weaving through other conversations with the ultimate goal of winding up somewhere else.  
  
Saria was content to sit and feel the colors dancing, moving around in her mind. Everything blended into an ever-shifting tapestry of sensation that gave Saria a sense of the world around her, a sense she likely wouldn't have if she could see with her eyes. Sounds and smells and textures made colors bloom in her mind like flowers after rain, and though she could use her hands or feet to tell where things were and her voice to guess how big a room was, it wasn't the same as when she could feel the golden color of lazy afternoon sunlight or the deep blue of holding hands on a cold night.  
  
"A penny for your thoughts," a familiar voice murmured. Navy bloomed into existence to her right, the words forming an affectionate hum with the gentle hand on her shoulder.  
  
Saria felt herself smile at the use of the old phrase. "Sorry, my thoughts cost at least one silver each. Try again later." Though she reached up and set her hand on Lucina's, listening to the soft shuffle of fabric as Lucina sat down next to her. Lucina's voice sounded huskier than usual— it must've been a 'prince' day as opposed to a 'princess' day, then. Since Saria couldn't tell by sight, Lucina tended to use his voice to hint which type of a day it was, even if he didn't quite realize he was doing it.  
  
"So much for that, then," Lucina chuckled. His laugh was light and called a shade of cornflower-blue to mind— everything about Lucina was blue, even to the seeing eye. It wasn't surprising that something in Saria's mind had decided that, too.  
  
Saria reached out in Lucina's general direction with one hand, and Lucina gently guided it to his cheek. With some sense of where to aim, Saria leaned over and kissed him just under his eye, then let her head rest on his shoulder. Strong datemates made the best pillows.  
  
"I'm sorry if I bothered you," Lucina murmured, voice slightly muffled by the fact that the lower half of his face was in her hair, lips against her skull. "You looked deep in thought. I was curious."  
  
"I was just listening," Saria breathed. "Everything is so much brighter now. So much warmer. It really feels like a safe place."  
  
She felt Lucina nod. "Do you think it's Marcus's seal?"  
  
"Could be part of it," Saria admitted. "Not having the un-Grima breathing down our backs probably helps."  
  
"Probably," Lucina hummed, in the way that made Saria sure he didn't come to talk about the un-Grima or the safehouse. "Say, Saria?"  
  
Saria hummed acknowledgement, her other hand moving to tuck itself around Lucina's arm and lace their fingers together. Lucina idly combed his fingers through Saria's red hair, which didn't feel red even though that was what she'd been told. Lucina had removed his gloves, baring strong hands with calloused fingers. Saria's own fingers were still soft and sensitive by necessity; she wouldn't be able to distinguish raised or engraved letters with thick callouses. From the lack of loose hair brushing Saria's cheeks with her head on Lucina's shoulder, Saria automatically knew it was tied at the nape of his neck. Lucina never made a big deal of it, but when his hair was tied back, it was usually a 'prince' day.  
   
"Do you ever wonder," Lucina paused, and Saria heard him take in a breath. "What will happen to us?"  
  
"I already know what will happen to us," Saria murmured. "We'll go back in time and stop all this from ever happening."  
  
"No, after that," Lucina continued. "If— when we succeed. What do we do then? It isn't our timeline we're saving. Having older copies of the Shepherds' children wandering about seems a little… unnecessary."  
  
That gave Saria pause for thought. "I'd guess it means we can do whatever we want. Assuming, of course, time doesn't collapse in on itself if two copies of the same person happen to be in the same timeline."  
  
"Assuming that," Lucina agreed. "Well then, I suppose— what would you want to do?"  
  
"Dunno," Saria remarked. "I mean, there isn't much I can do. Most jobs out there require eyes that work."  
  
"And what about us?" Lucina brought up, in what sounded like a moment of boldness. "As in… _this_ us. _Us_ us."  
  
Saria nodded in understanding, but took a moment to think about it. "Well, it'd take a miracle to break us apart now," she half-joked, though there was an element of truth. Even if they ended the romance, their relationship ran deeper than that. It'd be difficult to _not_ be partners, after living and communicating and fighting together for so long.  
  
"Hey, why the sudden interest in the future?" Saria teased, lightly elbowing Lucina's side. "You're not _that_ old. Don't start planning your will yet."  
  
Lucina sounded as if he were about to respond seriously, but halfway through opening his mouth, realized it was a joke. "Of course. I suppose I just… wondered. Do you remember what I said when I gave you the ring?"  
  
Saria's fingers went to her right hand, tracing the letters for the thousandth time. "That it may seem like a marriage proposal?"  
  
Lucina cleared his throat awkwardly, and Saria smirked at knowing she'd hit the nail on the head. "Yes, well," he stammered. "It's… that's not quite what it is. Of course the two gestures are related, but this isn't that, and that isn't—"  
  
"Uh-huh," Saria hummed teasingly. "So what is it, then, princey?"  
  
Lucina took a breath, squeezing Saria's hand. "A promise," he summed up. "A promise that, when this is all over, we'll still be partners. And perhaps we will get married, or perhaps not, but… I don't want to go back to being just myself. You make me so much stronger, Saria."  
  
Saria felt heat rise to her cheeks, because Lucina was _right._ Before being lovers, or even friends, they were partners— they fought together, had each other's strengths and weaknesses down as clearly as they did their own. They stood alone just fine, but together, they could move mountains. Saria supposed that, with that kind of synchronization, falling in love had been as natural as if it'd been there from the start. But they didn't have to be in love to be partners, and that was the real strength of their relationship.  
  
"We'll always be partners," Saria promised, pressing her lips to Lucina's cheek. "But, I mean— who am I to say what the future holds? You're the one with prophecy."  
  
He let out an amused hum. "Yes, but it's only ever useful in the moment. If I could know when this would all end, that'd be quite nice. But I suppose I can't have my cake and eat it, too."  
  
"No, that'd be too easy," Saria agreed. "So much for that."  
  
"Indeed," Lucina hummed, kissing Saria's head gently. "I love you."  
  
"Love you too," Saria murmured back. It was a quiet moment, where Saria allowed herself to soak in the deep cobalt of Lucina's presence. But she couldn't stop thinking back to the words on the ring— was she even the panther at all, and even if she wasn't, what did 'sacrifice' mean?


	11. Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had drafted a reasonable nighttime watch schedule, reliably updated the inventory records, fought platoons of reanimated corpse soldiers without much need for clever strategies, and generally succeeded in staying alive, organized, and mostly-healthy from day to day. Quite frankly, that was the most Lucina could ask.

Lucina, despite having the gift of foresight, never claimed to be all-knowing.  
  
And even if she _were_ all-knowing, that by no means meant she understood anything. After all, it was completely possible to know something only on the surface level and have little to no grasp on what it actually meant. Lucina, for instance, knew what compound interest was. But did she understand it? Not in the least.  
  
Admittedly, it would've been a step in the right direction if Lucina's dilemma lay in just understanding the circumstance— since it would imply that she, at the very least, knew what the circumstance _was_ and could maybe somehow understand it if she thought hard enough. You had to know the foundation of something before you could even try to understand it, after all. Only when the foundation of the problem seemed to be made of sand, even knowing it at all was nearly impossible.  
  
Lucina had been staring at wrinkled parchment long enough that the rest of the world seemed to blur and spin. Her elbows had been pressed into the sides of her knees so long that she was certain there were pink spots under her armor from the pressure, just as she was certain her fingers and thumb had made similar spots on her forehead and cheekbones. Her head swam with words like _puzzle_ and _pattern_ and _logically_ and _hidden_ that might as well have been gibberish for all she was able to process them. How did Laurent manage, staring at words on a page all day? Lucina had only been at it for an hour and she was already at her wit's end.  
  
This, Lucina thought, was why armies had official tacticians that were trained in this sort of thing— like how, years before, the Shepherds had had Robin to organize chore schedules and solve the puzzles that invariably cropped up when dealing with human beings. (Oh, gods, if Robin were there, she'd have the problem solved in seconds. But, then again, if Robin were there, they wouldn't have a problem to solve.)  
  
But since her army didn't have that, combined knowledge was a half-decent substitute. Between herself, Gerome, Laurent, and Kjelle, Lucina's army had stumbled along with something that resembled order. They had drafted a reasonable nighttime watch schedule, reliably updated the inventory records, fought platoons of reanimated corpse soldiers without much need for clever strategies, and generally succeeded in staying alive, organized, and mostly-healthy from day to day. Quite frankly, that was the most Lucina could ask.  
  
Though, obviously, dealing with far more intelligent life was very different from predicting the battle patterns of the (literally) brainless undead. Having to guess at where Grima had hidden the Five Gemstones within the Plegian Archives involved taking into account the fact that Grima was a sentient being with knowledge of His own actions. He could've known they'd come looking for the Gemstones, but they knew He knew that. Though maybe He knew they knew He knew, meaning they knew He knew they knew He knew. But they didn't really know if He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew, and if they _did_ know He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew, then they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew. They weren't really sure just how much Grima _did_ know, but there was a chance that if He thought about it, and they thought about it, the cycle of who could possibly know about what the other knew would've gone on forever with the continual assumption that the other party did know when it was, in fact, not necessarily true.  
  
Thinking reasonably, there was also the possibility that Grima _hadn't_ known they'd come looking for the Gemstones, making the entire "He knew they knew" chain pointless. With every additional level, there was the possibility that either Grima knew or He didn't, and the unfortunate part of it was that the chain never stopped. They could know He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they knew He knew they'd come looking for the Gemstones, and as far out as Lucina cared to list, they _still_ didn't know whether Grima knew any of that or not. The entire conundrum made her head spin, but at this point, her brain was a soupy mush of every possible uncertainty there was. That, at least, she was sure of.  
  
Enough was enough. Lucina heaved a huge sigh, allowing her hands to release her head and her sore back to finally stretch. Laurent, Kjelle, and Gerome had been arguing about what Grima could or could not know for at _least_ an hour, and Lucina had lost sight of where they'd even begun.  
  
"Might I be the first to say," she began, her voice ceasing the debate. "That yes, there is a distinct possibility that Grima knows we know to the nth power that we could come looking for the Gemstones, and a vast number of uncertainties to this cycle that are certainly worth thinking about, but can we please get back to the point?"  
  
"I keep saying that, but _they_ won't listen," Kjelle sighed, jerking her head at Laurent and Gerome, both glaring at each other with stubborn, masculine pride in the fact that they both fully believed they were right and the other was wrong.  
  
"Yes, well," Laurent said sharply. "Lucina is right. We should get back to the point. By which I mean my point. Because my point is right."  
  
"No, it isn't," Gerome retorted. "There is not, never has been, and never _will_ be reason for Grima to have hidden the Gemstones in any sort of pattern. This is not a work of fiction!"  
  
"But Grima could know we would think that, and hide them in a pattern anyway," Laurent fired back. "So clearly, this discussion is over, because that is logically what would happen."  
  
"This discussion is _not_ over!" Gerome said hotly. "If Grima knows we know He knows we think He hid them randomly, then He would hide them randomly to try and stay one step ahead of us."  
  
"You're both being idiots," Kjelle interrupted. "Let's just storm the place and look until we find the Gemstones. That's the only _actual_ way to go about this! 'Could' is for cowards."  
  
Laurent and Gerome both clamored protests over each other, which Kjelle attempted to shut down at a louder volume. Akin to the way the 'he knows we know' cycle went, this naturally escalated until Lucina intervened.  
  
"All of you, stop!" she demanded, in a voice that very likely could be heard downstairs. It was a voice that made all three of them immediately shut up and turn to face their commander, because when Lucina had to break out that voice, the seemingly-infinte well that was her patience was running low.  
  
"Yeah, I can't hear myself think over you three," a new voice chimed in from somewhere behind Lucina. Lucina nodded in agreement before realizing what was happening, fumbling for Falchion and subsequently realizing it was just Marcus, leaning on the front windowsill like he owned the place.  
  
Marcus sauntered over, hands in the pockets of his coat. "I mean, jeez," he chuckled. "How do you get anything done? I'm kind of impressed you've made it this far with that much arguing."  
  
Lucina sighed. "Marcus, what are you doing? How did you get in here?"  
  
"It's _my_ safehouse, duh," Marcus rolled his eyes, as if it were obvious. "And anyway, I figured it was high time I stopped by and said hello. Gosh, what kind of a neighbor would I be if I forgot that?" He burst into a short cackle then that only served to make Lucina feel slightly unnerved and slightly more annoyed.  
  
"Marcus," Lucina started to say, but Marcus wasn't done.  
  
"Speaking of, though," he crouched next to her. "How've you been, sis? I guess your army's all settled in and stuff. Pretty impressive, the system you've got. Mom would approve."  
  
Before Lucina could say anything at all about that, Marcus had scooted over to Kjelle. "So you're part of the strategy team, huh?" he was saying, as Kjelle wore a very blatant mixture of confusion and offense across her features. "Never would've pegged you for that sort, but that shows how much I know, huh?"  
  
"Actually, I—" Kjelle tried to say, but Marcus had moved on.  
  
"Laurent, old buddy!" Marcus said gleefully, punching Laurent in the shoulder in a way Lucina was fairly sure was friendly, but likely bruised. "Good to see you got rid of the braids. If you ask me, that was _not_ a good look. I bet _you're_ the real brains here, huh? Didn't expect anything less."  
  
"Um," Laurent managed.  
  
"And what about you, huh, big guy?" Marcus had moved to Gerome. "I don't believe we've met. Name's Marcus, everyone just calls me Luci's kid brother— or they did, anyway, before 'traitor' caught on instead!" He burst out laughing, though he was the only one who did.  
  
Lucina felt like she'd just been smashed in the face with a tome— and that had happened before. Some part of her supposed she'd just have to get used to her little brother talking like Nah's father, but another part wanted very much to refuse. What was it about dark magic that turned people into sadists?  
  
Marcus finally plopped down between Kjelle and Laurent. "Yeesh, tough crowd," he mumbled. "Though I guess you have to be a special kind of nutty to really _get_ my kind of humor, you know?"  
  
"Marcus," Lucina finally managed. "Is there a reason you're here _besides_ to say hello and offer twisted humor?"  
  
Marcus winced in mock hurt. "Brr, Luci. You really think I'd come all the way out here for nothing? Trust me, this is good."  
  
"Then, by all means," Lucina said, holding her hands out. "Please go on."  
  
The shift in Marcus's attitude wasn't a terribly noticable one, but Lucina had always had a knack for reading people. (Except when it was useful as a young adult when dealing with peers, as anyone would tell you.)  
  
"Oh, boy, where do I start," he sighed. "Well, Grima's seriously peeved at everything with atoms and mom's almost literally falling apart as we speak. That's the jist of it."  
  
To her credit, Lucina did not take that news too badly. Perhaps Marcus was getting to her— she was sure that prolonged exposure to him would warp anyone's perspectives at least a little bit.  
  
"Well, I'll need more information than that," she managed. "A reason would be nice. Something we could do about it would be even nicer."  
  
Marcus shrugged. "Well, think about it. Mom's only mortal. After awhile, anyone would fall apart trying to keep all _that_ in one place."  
  
Lucina wondered what would happen if Robin's body just gave out— would Grima die, too? The worst possible conclusion immediately came to mind, and from the way Laurent's face went white as a sheet, he'd thought of it too.  
  
"Can't really say what'll happen if she dies, though," Marcus shrugged. Lucina wondered what sort of mental gymnastics he had to do to make himself seem so _okay_ with all of it. "Who knows, right? If you're lucky, Grima won't have anywhere to go, so He'll fizzle out."  
  
Who knows, indeed. Lucina hummed thoughtfully, though she and Marcus both knew that Robin was not Grima's only vessel.  
  
"So with that fun stuff out of the way," Marcus announced, rummaging around in the inside pocket of his coat. "I've got something for you, Luci."  
  
Lucina raised an eyebrow as he handed her a stack of folded parchments tied with twine. "What is this?"  
  
"Funny story, actually," Marcus began, immediately making it known the story wasn't funny in the slightest. "You know Aunt Emmeryn's kids? The dead ones?"  
  
"Yes," Lucina said slowly, taking the parchments.  
  
"It's sort of about that?" Marcus scratched his head and shifted himself to his feet. "Eh, it's in the letter. Anyway, that's all I needed to tell you. And don't worry about the Gemstones, yeah? I've got that under control."  
  
"Wait a minute," Lucina tried to say, trying to follow him to the stairs. "You can't just leave after that! What about Aunt Emmeryn's children, and the Gemstones?"  
  
"Look, Luci," Marcus sighed. "I could hang around here and pollute the atmosphere with my slight insanity, or I could get going because I've got a scary-ass diety breathing down my neck at any given moment and I don't really want to test the limits of my seal at this moment. You decide."  
  
Lucina narrowed her eyes. He was right, she hated to admit— not about polluting the atmosphere, but even he didn't seem sure of how strong his magic seal on the house was. Lucina would rather not put that to the test with quite so much at stake.  
  
"Alright," she relented. "But knock next time, alright?"  
  
"No promises!" Marcus grinned impishly, then melted into the shadows of the stairwell as if he was never there at all.  
  
Lucina looked back to the rest of her strategy group— all of whom stared back expectantly.  
  
She let out a sigh through her teeth. The least Marcus could've done was give them a straight answer.


	12. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had sneered at her when she said she wanted to move to Ylisse, asking her if she was going to abandon her name for one from the country that had once slaughtered their kinsmen by the thousands. She had not responded, but done exactly that.

Her name was not Robin.  
  
It never had been, and despite the reliability with which she answered to it, it never would be. The name was light and pretty on her tongue, like the little red-breasted Ylissean songbird. Short and pleasing, rolling off one's tongue like the bird's song. 'Robin' was short and brief and very Ylissean, for lack of a better term— her thoughts when choosing it had been that perhaps it'd be easier to fit in with a more local name.  
  
She had said to the prince of Ylisse on the day she met him, _my name is Robin,_ and the name tasted light and pretty like the fluffy pastries she saw in the shop windows. But it was a lie, a pretty lie she told herself would make things easier, a lie that tugged at her being every time she heard someone spit the name of Plegia like they'd bitten into something bitter. Every time she had to think about how to best fight through the desert terrain that had once been her home, how to take out their dark mages, how to bring down their wyvern brigades.  
  
Grima did not care what country she was fighting for. Grima wanted her to kill anyone that stood in her way.  
  
_Rajni,_ He would whisper, her real name draped like heavy silk on a tongue that did not exist, _Rajni, dear Rajni, can you hear me? Rajni, Rajni, sweet Rajni, listen to me._ He said her name and she listened, though by all the gods, she shouldn't— but she listened anyway.  
  
_Rajni,_ Grima would say to her, and sometimes she would pretend Chrom had said _Rajni_ and not _Robin,_ as if he knew her real name and how it sounded. Would he stumble through it, pronounce it 'rodge-nee' with a common-speaking tongue unused to the soft cadence of native Plegian? Yes, in all likelihood, since it was too much to hope that Chrom, of all people, would know how to pronounce Plegian.  
  
Chrom reeked of Ylisse— at least Grima said so. From the Brand on his shoulder to the bright blue of his eyes, he was a perfect image of a Ylissean ideal. In Plegia, he'd be too pale and too dumb-looking, suited more to swordplay than sorcery. Though Chrom was a reasonably smart man, he lacked the tact and cleverness that marked his peers in Plegia. He was, she knew, nothing at all like Rohan.  
  
Rohan would never have approved. He would've hated Chrom, and hated the way she acted with him— the way she won his wars, fell in love with him, married him, gave him two children. He probably would've found a way to make himself hate the children, too, or at least he'd try. Her brother was nothing if not prideful and stubborn as a mule.  
  
_Rajni, Rajni, my Rajni,_ Grima would say to her, and after awhile His words sounded like a jeer, _Rajni, you were meant to be better, Rajni, you were meant to be greater, Rajni, Rajni, sweet Rajni, dear Rajni._ The way He said her name over and over again sounded like a taunt, a tease, a mean chant a group of children would sing to the classmate always picked last. He called her a queen, a goddess, said she was meant to be so much more, but she didn't think He meant it.  
  
She was not queen Rajni, she was queen Robin— because the queen of Ylisse couldn't have a Plegian name, she told herself as the lie that was Robin tugged her further and further down, down into a name that was not hers and a life she did not lead.  
  
_Rajni, Rajni, this is pathetic, my Rajni,_ Grima would say, _dear Rajni, you waste your time, Rajni, I could make you better, dear Rajni, sweet Rajni, you were meant to be better than this, Rajni, you are not of Ylisse, Rajni._ His words were pretty but they stung like knives, and she could hear it buried in His words: _pathetic, a waste, broken, imperfect, You Do Not Belong._ Because she was not Robin and she could not be Rajni. Because she was the Plegian queen of Ylisse.  
  
Her first child, Lucina, was a treasure— beautiful, blessed, strong as her father and clever as her mother. She pretended not to hear the way Grima sneered, _Rajni, dear Rajni, are you really her mother, sweet Rajni, does she deserve a mother like you, Rajni, my Rajni?_ She heard the claws in His words and ignored them, even though she knew He was right.  
  
With her second child, Marcus, she prayed Naga would choose him, too. But days passed and She did not, and days passed and she had to keep being their mother, queen Robin, while Grima jeered and His sweet names turned sour. _Rajni, what are you, Rajni, my Rajni, if you cannot be your true self around them, dear Rajni? My Rajni, why do you lie to them, Rajni, Rajni?_  
  
She started to react when He spoke. _Rajni, Rajni,_ Grima would say, and she would tug at her hair until it was painful. _Rajni, Rajni, dear Rajni, sweet Rajni,_ He would say, and she would dig her nails into her arm with each word until it bled. _Rajni, you are a queen, dear Rajni, sweet Rajni, you are a goddess, Rajni,_ He would say, and her fist would hit the castle wall until it bruised. She learned to wear gloves, to lie to Chrom when he asked what had happened there, to pretend it was alright because Robin was not hosting a monster in her head and Rajni was buried beneath a web of lies and shattered glass.  
  
The children grew taller. Grima grew louder.  
  
_Rajni, Rajni, my Rajni,_ He would taunt and make her body shake, _do you deserve them? Are you not better? Or, Rajni, my Rajni, are you a coward? Are you as useless as your forebearers, Rajni?_  
  
She stopped sleeping at some point. Chrom, bless him, was far too easy to fool for an Exalt.  
  
_Rajni, dear Rajni,_ Grima told her when her husband lay dead on the floor, _you did not deserve him anyway, Rajni, you were meant to be greater, my Rajni, you were meant to be a goddess. He is nothing. They are nothing. You are nothing, Rajni, but I can make you everything._ At that point, she noticed His sentences expanding— her name was no longer every other word.  
  
After she came home, Lucina could not look her in the eye. _Oh, my Rajni, she hates you,_ Grima taunted _, dear Rajni, what did you do? Were you not good enough? Sweet Rajni, you were never meant to love, dear Rajni, no one was ever meant to love you._  
  
She began to think He was right. When she saw the Mark in her son's eye, she wondered if Grima spoke to him too— if Grima called him Marcus, the name of a great-uncle on Chrom's side, or perhaps a name he would've been given if this had been Plegia. The very thought made her hands shake, as they did when she saw people side-eye her son as if he, a little boy of eight years old, could be a Plegian spy.  
  
She left with Marcus three days after she had returned to Ylisse. She asked Grima where to go, and she could feel His sly chuckle.  
  
_Why, Rajni, you go home,_ He told her, _my Rajni, they've missed you in Plegia. Go, Rajni, queen Rajni. Take your place on the throne. The Grimleal will welcome you, Rajni. This is all you were meant to be, sweet Rajni. You were never meant to be anything else._  
  
They called her a queen. They called her a goddess. They called her Rajni.  
  
For a year, Grima did not berate her from inside her head. For a year, it was peaceful for her— but she dared not write to Ylisstol. _They don't miss you there,_ she told herself, not noticing the hints of Grima's red that ran through the words like veins. _They don't miss you. They never did. What were you to them? Nothing._  
  
Rohan visited her one day. She wished she could say her name was Robin.  
  
_So you've gone and become a goddess,_ he called, announcing himself from the other end of the throne room. _How's it feel, sister? As good as you imagined?_  
  
_Go away, Rohan,_ she tried to growl, as Marcus peeked out from behind her coat and stared at him, in the way that young children that didn't know any better stared at things they didn't know.  
  
_I guess I should've expected this from you, though,_ Rohan continued. _You always did want what wasn't yours, Rajni. Being a Plegian wasn't enough for you, you had to be a Ylissean, too! You're never satisfied with what you have._  
  
She wanted to lash out and did not. And who are you, then, she instead remarked with a shocking coldness. Are you satisfied with merely surviving, Rohan? You always were a bit of a bottom-feeder.  
  
_Now that was uncalled for,_ he retorted. _I'm an apothecary, that's who I am. I live in the Northeast, in this little merchant village that's not on any map. My wife makes charms. I have two daughters, Anya and Morgan— Anya's actually about the same age as your little guy, there. Morgan just turned three._  
  
_Fascinating,_ she drawled with an impatience that wasn't typically hers, as Marcus clung a little tighter to her coat. _Are there any more achievements in mediocrity you want to share, brother?_  
  
Rohan shrugged, with a nonchalance that made her prickle with anger. _Did you drag your son into this, too? And what about his father— or does he have any siblings? What other family have you left behind, Rajni?_  
  
She thought of Lucina in that instant, the way she'd stared as if her own mother had become a monster, as if the Brand in her eye could see straight through to the churning, twisting mass that was Grima growing deep inside her chest. Lucina was twelve, at the age where girls started to become curious about what made them women, the age she needed a mother to guide her through the uncertain times ahead. She could imagine Lucina pushing that aside and picking up her sword, training twice as hard now that her father was no longer there to teach her. Lucina would be a fine Exalt one day— the hero-queen guardian of a peaceful realm.  
  
_Stop it,_ she demanded— but Rohan didn't stop.  
  
_What kind of mother are you,_ he told her, as if he was taunting her— as if he, too, had Grima inside his head, turning his words cruel. She and Rohan been close as twin siblings could be, once. Never apart, mischevious twins that ran wild through Plegian city streets and finished one another's sentences. And then she had accepted Grima's blessing and gone to Ylisse, while he had left for his little village and never looked back. He had sneered at her when she said she wanted to move to Ylisse, asking her if she was going to abandon her name for one from the country that had once slaughtered their kinsmen by the thousands. She had not responded, but done exactly that.  
  
_I don't want to discuss this anymore, Rohan,_ she said coldly. _Leave me alone._  
  
_Don't you dare just shut me out like that,_ he demanded. _Gods, you always do this! Ever since mother died—_  
  
_Mother did not deserve to live in my realm!_ she interrupted, with a shout that made Marcus cling tighter to her coat, but fidget as if he wanted to hide from his own mother.  
  
The words echoed around the throne room. Rohan set a hand on his hip, staring her down coldly.  
  
_Now I see what you are, Rajni,_ he remarked. _You're a monster. Right, little guy, is she scaring you?_  
  
He looked at Marcus then, who buried his face in her coat. Rohan smirked, in the way that made her want to kill him right there— but she didn't, no matter how much Grima would've wanted her to.  
  
She took a ragged breath, and let out a snarl. _Get out of my sight,_ she said through clenched teeth. _Get out of my castle. Get out of my city. And don't you dare speak to my son again. You are nothing and I— I AM YOUR GOD._  
  
She didn't yell then, but somehow, her voice sounded earsplittingly loud in the throne room. Rohan stared at her, face straight in determination.  
  
_I suppose I'm not welcome here,_ he decided. _But one day, sister. One day, you'll go too far, and you'll regret it. No one can be a god._  
  
Rohan left, but not before she hurled a pedestal at him, one that smashed against the stone walls and left a crumbling dent— the first of many she would create.  
  
_Oh, Rajni, he doesn't understand,_ Grima purred. _You are better than he. With more power, Rajni, you could show him. And would you like that?_  
  
_I will show him,_ she growled, though she wasn't sure whether she said it aloud or not.  
  
She would show him— she would show him who was right and who was wrong, in a way that neither Robin nor Rajni could do alone.


	13. Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What would father do,_ she couldn't help but ask herself. _No, what would mother do? What would Aunt Emmeryn do?_
> 
> But Lucina was not her father, nor her mother, nor either of her aunts. What would _Lucina_ do?

Lucina became the Exalt at seventeen years old, in the silent aftermath of a battle they did not really win, facing the steps up to the Exalt's throne her father had always hated, with a bruised nose and a splint on her ankle.  
  
If, Lucina thought, they saved _their_ world, while it still had some pockets of society remaining, that world would not acknowledge Lissa as a true Exalt. She had not been crowned, hadn't bothered with any of that— there was work to be done, and if she had any hope of doing a single thing about it, she couldn't waste her time with royal business. As far as Lucina was concerned, that was the most Exaltly thing you could ever do, but no one had consulted her on that matter.  
  
She stood before the steps, wondering if she could still think herself a princess (though Lucina was never quite sure on some days whether she'd prefer to be called a prince or a princess, and those were the same days she was glad 'Exalt' was an ungendered term), wondering what her father would do, had he still been alive.  
  
Probably break something, she reasoned. But what would he tell her to do? It was wishful thinking, and likely selfish wishful thinking at that, but she sometimes liked to imagine what he'd say to her if he could see her. Was he proud she'd survived so far?  
  
(She didn't know it then, but he was, more than his words could express.)  
  
_I'm an Exalt,_ she thought to herself. She mouthed the words as if she'd meant to say them aloud but the command didn't quite reach her vocal chords, staring at the dust filtering through the air. The ceiling of the throne room had crumbled inwards, weakened by spell after spell, leaving the room open to a smoky sky filled with hazy clouds and a weak sun that likely wouldn't be shining in another hour.  
  
"Do we need the weather report?" came a halfhearted attempt at a joke from somewhere behind Lucina. Lucina had learned to recognize her companions by the sounds of their voices, and Nah was no exception— she wasn't quite monotone, but Lucina swore she always heard a little bit of an exasperated frown in her voice.  
  
Lucina turned, and shook her head. "Thank you anyway, Nah. Though, ah…"  
  
"I can't make predictions anyway anymore," Nah muttered. "I know."  
  
"Of course," Lucina apologized. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."  
  
Nah shrugged, crouching next to Lucina and looking at the cracks in the stone floor. She lisped slightly through a broken forefang, and Lucina knew it must've hurt, but Nah wasn't the type to let on to things like that. That kind of thing was what annoyed brady immensely— _Ain't a point in puttin' on a brave face when yer at death's door,_ he always said. _No one gives a shit how stoic you are in the med hall. If ya don't holler when yer hurtin', I ain't gonna know how to stop it!_  
  
"I miss Marcus," Nah mumbled, arms around her knees, and she sounded so dejected Lucina wanted to pull her into a hug. "He was a clown, and I know he's w-with Grima now, but…"  
  
"I miss him, too," Lucina admitted. "It's okay."  
  
"And it isn't fair," Nah continued, stubbornly rubbing her eyes. "It just isn't fair we couldn't even touch after… you know. Why did it have to happen? Why Marcus?"  
  
Lucina wasn't sure what to say. She felt like this was her first test as an Exalt— know what to do in the event of an upset friend. It was a little foolish to think that her entire authoritative life depended on this one moment, as Lucina knew full well, but it was easy to think it.  
  
She set a hand on Nah's tiny shoulder, making the other girl look up in surprise.  
  
"We'll make it right," she promised. "We'll bring Marcus back to the past with us, and you can have all the time together you've missed in this time."  
  
Nah stared at the cracked floor, brushing her shaggy bangs out of her eyes. "I still don't think it's fair. Why do we have to fight? It isn't our fault."  
  
"It never was," Lucina agreed. "We didn't ask for any of this. I don't think anyone ever does, really. Who in their right mind would? But this was the life we were given, whether we like it or not. Personally, I'd rather try and make of it what I can than waste it wishing it were something else."  
  
Lucina stood, the shuffle of her boots loud and echoing in the quiet room. She helped Nah to her feet, then looked around to the rest of her team scattered around the ruined space. No one had really wanted to stray too far from where Lucina had settled, though she wouldn't have been able to distinguish anyone's conversation. Without realizing it, they'd formed a rough semicircle around Lucina's spot that made Lucina feel, for the first time, like a real leader. Like an Exalt.  
  
She could feel the overall spirit of the group lower than it had ever been. Though the battle was over, they'd lost Exalt Lissa— the last of her generation in Ylisstol. Loss and loneliness settled like a heavy fog over her friends, and over Lucina herself. It felt like a heavy, lead blanket on her shoulders, urging her to just lie down until it didn't hurt so much to get up anymore. It had sunk in that they were not going to be protected anymore, because the castle walls had crumbled and the last of the Shepherds had died doing that very thing.  
  
This, Lucina thought, was the real test.  
  
_What would father do,_ she couldn't help but ask herself. _No, what would mother do? What would Aunt Emmeryn do?_  
  
But Lucina was not her father, nor her mother, nor either of her aunts. What would _Lucina_ do?  
  
She acted without answering her own question. Lucina pulled Falchion out of the sheath at her side, the slow scraping of metal cutting through the air just as the blade would. And then with all her strength, she shoved the tip of it into a crack between the stones, the sound automatically forcing everyone to look at her.  
  
She took a breath, scanning the faces of each of her teammates— her friends. Owain, her cousin and the first she'd choose to take over should she go astray. Kjelle, her sparring partner and oldest friend. Laurent, the brightest mage of his time. Yarne, the taguel with the courage to face a world he was so afraid of. Ke'tu, a prince that swore allegiance to her as a knight would. Marti, whose words never failed to make someone smile even if only for a minute. Severa, whose mask of cruelty belied the heart of a Pegasus Knight. Brady, far from a gentle healer but a steady presence they all needed nonetheless. Gerome, a staunch ally whose mask didn't bother hiding the kind soul he was. Cynthia, still stubbornly working at becoming a true soldier despite all weaknesses. Inigo, who reminded everyone that they were still young when they needed it most. Noire, a much-needed listening ear and tireless sentry. Nah, rational and stable despite all odds. And Saria, though Lucina wasn't quite sure if 'friend' was sufficient for all she felt about Saria anymore.  
  
"We did not win today's battle," she began, her voice echoing for a brief moment around the cavernous space before dying down once more. "We fought in whatever way we could, but we were defeated. Now it has become evident that we are the last survivors of Ylisstol."  
  
It was a bit of a bleak note to begin a speech with, and the part of Lucina that wasn't focused on maintaining an outward image of stability cringed. But words kept flowing out of her mouth without consulting her brain, miraculously coherent.  
  
"It is all right to mourn," she continued. "For all that is happened, and for all we have lost, we deserve time to honor their memory and the sacrifices they made so we may be here today. We all know what it is like to lose family."  
  
She waited a beat to let it sink in. Lucina didn't know how many of her teammates could've had siblings that never made it to Ylisstol at all, other relatives they held dear that were now dead. Lucina supposed she should consider herself lucky that her mother and brother were still alive at all, even if they were on the side of Grima.  
  
"But," she announced, after another breath. "We cannot stop altogether because of this. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe that we are all here and now because our stories are still being written. By refusing to move, we do not stop the flow of time; we merely allow it to flow around us and shape us how it sees fit. At times, we may be unable to carry on, but we cannot stop forever. We must always move forwards, never back, and make our own decision as to what we will allow time to do with us."  
  
Her hands tightened around Falchion's hilt. "It is not fair that we must fix what our ancestors began. It is not fair that we have to become our own protectors so young, when some of us should still have parents and elders to guide us. It is not fair that we cannot be young anymore. But life is not fair, no matter how much we wish it to be. It is cruel, and it doesn't care about who we are as individuals. It will pick up stones and throw them at us whether we like it or not. It is our choice whether or not we deflect the stones, or dodge them, or allow them to hit us and get back up again. Sometimes one will hit us hard enough that it feels like we cannot go on, like we are too small to handle that pain. Sometimes the stones will leave scars that never fade away. And no matter how much we protest, another will still come. It is unfair, but what can we do?"  
  
She felt her voice grow stronger all of a sudden. "What can we do, indeed?" she repeated. "What can we do but grow stronger? What can we do but learn from when we fall? What can we do but, when faced with the decision of whether or not to allow time to shape us, fight back? Will we be rocks in a river, to eventually be weathered away by the rushing water of time, or will we make our own decisions as to where time takes us and who we become?"  
  
Was it working? Lucina couldn't tell, but she couldn't stop there. "I do not believe in fate, but I do believe in hope. I do not know what we can change, if we can change anything at all, but I know that if we are to survive on our own, we cannot stop moving. We march forwards, trusting that there will be ground beneath our feet when we step, trusting that there will be a light at the end of the tunnel. We are the last hope for our world— what would we be if we gave up now, after we have lived as long as we have in a time when any breath could be our last? We have come so, so far despite all we have been faced with, without even realizing it. We have our lives, our limbs, our minds. We have each other and we have the memories of our parents and old friends to guide us. And most of all, we have the courage to take another breath, walk another step, fight another day. We have all accomplished an incredible feat of bravery, whether or not we call it such."  
  
She took a breath and began again. "'Step follows step, hope follows courage,'" she recited. "As I recall, that is the first part of a saying they have in Regna Ferox. And what can we do but keep going? We are all, each of us, warriors. We have survived against all odds, breathing despite knowing the next one could be our last. If that isn't spitting in the face of everything trying to destroy us, I don't know what is."  
  
Lucina watched as the mood shifted. Her teammates moved closer, pushing themselves off the gravel-strewn floor, the fog of hopelessness burning away in the sparks caused by Lucina's words. Her heart was pounding, blood rushing in her ears with enough volume to obstruct her own voice. And yet, she felt a sense of excitement, feeling a fire start to burn behind her eyes. Was this what her father had felt like, addressing his Shepherds? Was this what her mother felt like when her plans worked the way they should?  
  
"We can still change our future," she announced. "As long as I am alive, I swear on the crown of Ylisse that we will not be stopped. Even if it kills me, I give my word as an Exalt that all of you will see peace once more. I swear it!"  
  
She hadn't realized she'd said 'Exalt.' Lucina dropped to one knee, her hands on Falchion, bowing before her teammates— her teammates, and her soldiers.  
  
The seconds of silence that followed felt like years, but they ended when Owain stepped forwards.  
  
"I'm a prince of Ylisse," he said in a voice still thick with emotion but no less strong. "And Exalt Lucina, I'll fight for our future."  
  
Lucina lifted her head. Owain's declaration spawned another, and another, and another.  
  
"You have my lance," Kjelle said proudly. "Consider me your solider, your Grace!"  
  
"I ally myself with this cause," Laurent nodded firmly. "I think it a wise choice."  
  
 "An Exalt isn't an Exalt without her Pegasus Knight guards!" Cynthia chirped, thrusting her fist into the air.  
  
"As if I'd leave you with just these clowns protecting you, Luce," Severa scoffed haughtily, though her eyes were shining. "Let's spit in destiny's face."  
  
"And I can't very well leave everyone behind," Inigo added. "Why, it'd be a crime to— ouch!" He rubbed the back of his head where Severa had smacked him.  
  
"I didn't know someone could be so brave, just for living," Noire mumbled, her voice miraculously above a timid whisper. "I'll… I'll be brave for other things, too, for you!"  
  
"Gawds, look at this," Brady sniffled, though he rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of his robe. "Well, every army needs a healer, an' I aim to make my ma proud, wherever she is. So, yer Grace, I'll fight for ya too."  
  
"Mother would do the same," Ke'tu grunted affirmation. "I shall be your shield, milady."  
  
"Me too!" Marti added empathetically. "I want to see a peaceful world, and I'm going to fight behind you until it happens!"  
  
"The concept of 'safety' does sound nice," Yarne contributed. "And, well, my foot is good luck! We'll need that."  
  
"Okay, that's gross," Nah grimaced. "If it means we get to see peace again, I'll fight for it— I'll die for it, if I need to!"  
  
"It would do the memory of our families proud," Gerome brought up. "I swear my allegiance, your Grace."  
  
Saria was the last, but she was by no means the least. "I'll fight for you, Exalt Lucina," she promised. "And I'll watch your back— figuratively, of course."  
  
She pushed herself to her feet, an incredulous smile she couldn't quite control spreading over her face. "Everyone, I…" Whatever speech she'd managed to come up with had fallen into the abyss as her voice wavered, tears springing to her eyes. She couldn't think of anything to say, but it was likely she'd burst into tears before managing to say it.  
  
Lucina felt herself being pulled into the crowd with a clamor of voices and clanking armor before she could protest.  
  
"Your Grace, are you crying?" Severa teased. "I never took you for the soft type."  
  
"I'm n-not crying," Lucina hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. "I-I'm— I'm just— t-truthfully I didn't think I'd get this far."  
  
The chorous of her friends appeared to be saying a collective "Oh, come on, Lucina."  
 "Really!" she insisted.  
  
Kjelle snorted and clapped her on the shoulder, which would've been fine if she hadn't been wearing armor. "After a speech like that? It's more likely it'd rain donuts."  
  
"Damn it, Kjelle, don't tease!" Severa gasped, lightly whacking the side of Kjelle's head. Lucina heard the group break into laughter— honest laughter that drove off the traces of loneliness and fear. Even Lucina had to chuckle a little, through the tears running down her cheeks.  
  
Saria pushed her way through the crowd and hugged her tightly, which was a bit of a surprise, but more of a surprise was the moment after when Lucina kissed her in the moment of unrestrained emotion that could only be described as ecstacy— an ecstacy fueled by hope and companionship and the fiercely-burning flame that made it feel, truly, like things would be alright.  
  
Lucina wondered, then, if her parents were proud of her.  
  
For no reason she could really tell, she somehow knew they were.


	14. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It must sound like madness to you— we've never even met, and here I am asking you to trust me. In that case, trust Marcus. For all his eccentricity, he does have a firm handle on all that's happening. He's an excellent strategist, if a bit off-kilter. If your mother was anything similar, I imagne she must've been a very intelligent woman._

_To Exalt Lucina,_  
  
_It doesn't surprise me that you've taken the title of 'Exalt.' From what Marcus tells me, you've definitely earned it. I certainly can't say that I command a small army of my peers— commanding my brother, though he eats enough for an army, definitely isn't the same, and it's not quite commanding because he never listens. I'm certain you'll live up to the title, though between your father, my mother, and aunt Lissa, you have big shoes to fill._  
  
_My name is August. I'm the elder son of the late Exalt Emmeryn and her wife Phila, ex-captain of the Ylissean Pegasus Knights. My younger brother, Phobos, has included his own letter, though you don't have to read that one, mostly because there's very little to actually read. Marcus has told me that my brother and I were thought dead on the night the Fire Emblem was stolen from Ylisse. As you can likely infer, this is not the case._  
  
_I shan't delve into the story now. Perhaps after we meet, when we have time, Phobos and I will share our knowledge of what happened and why we're alive. Suffice to say, however, this letter was not written for that purpose._  
  
_If you are reading this, Marcus has given it to you, as I requested in my last letter to him. He's an interesting boy, your brother. He reminds me of Phobos— I can only imagine how your relationship is or was, in this case. We met him in person some time ago, as Phobos and I have been all around the world at this point and never stay in one place for too long._  
  
_That was several years ago at this point, I believe. When Phobos and I landed in Dahiri, Marcus was sent to kill us, and again, that clearly didn't actually happen. He was quite interested in my shield, so the three of us got to talking, and thus Marcus formed a plan. My brother's carrier pigeon has since, over the past few years, gotten quite the workout. But I digress; the point is we're not your enemies, and in fact would be considered your allies, as we both want the same thing._  
  
_Marcus has told me that you plan to travel back in time. While I admit that I was skeptical at first, divine power does work in very odd ways that we as humans have little hope of comprehending. But it would likely not be a far reach to assume that you plan on performing the Awakening, in an attempt to gather power. It can't be easy to travel through time, after all. And as you know, you need the Fire Emblem and all of the Five Gemstones to do this, setting aside the very literal trial by fire that comes next. Marcus has told me you're attempting to locate the Gemstones before trying to obtain the Fire Emblem, which is very reasonable. I don't know how much Marcus has told you, but I at least hope he's told you not to worry about obtaining the Gemstones._  
  
_I'll go off the assumption that he has. With luck, this means his plan is in the stage where things begin to pick up— though it's fairly complex and goes back far further than what he's told me, so I can't say for sure. With that in mind, it must seem very confusing, but you need to trust me. Just stay put, until Marcus gives the signal._  
  
_It must sound like madness to you— we've never even met, and here I am asking you to trust me. In that case, trust Marcus. For all his eccentricity, he does have a firm handle on all that's happening. He's an excellent strategist, if a bit off-kilter. If your mother was anything similar, I imagne she must've been a very intelligent woman._  
  
_Perhaps he's told you this, in which case, allow me to reiterate: when the signal is given, go to Mount Prism. It's where Phobos and I are now, and, according to Marcus, it's where everything comes together. (I can't pretend to imagine what that means by that, given the fact that it's Marcus.)_  
  
_As for what the signal is: you'll definitely know it when you see it. More than likely it'll be something Grima can't decipher— perhaps in another language? I wish you the best of luck in decoding it, though I have no doubt that you can._  
  
_I must say, I look forward to meeting you in person, Lucina. Marcus has spoken highly of you, and it certainly takes a strong person to lead an army of adolescents. If you're anything like Chrom was, well, I'll try to prepare myself mentally._  
  
_Until we meet, cousin._  
_August_


	15. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was it about being twelve that brought the world crashing down around your feet? She hoped it wasn't genetic. Should she ever have children, she'd have to take extra care when they were twelve.

Lucina had never had a truly memorable dream before.  
  
She'd always been a light sleeper, so typically her dreams were shallow, usually full of voices she couldn't recognize and a vague sense of unease that made her mouth and throat sore when she woke. Perhaps it was the warm air, or the density of the previous night's supper— whatever it was, she dreamed.  
  
It was Castle Ylisse, she knew immediately— of course, she also knew it wasn't the Castle Ylisse she'd grown up in. The huge oak tree in the garden wasn't as tall or broad as she remembered, and the healer's tower appeared to be in the beginning stages of a renovation that wouldn't be finished until a few years before Lucina's birth.  
  
The air was fairly relaxed; it was for that time of night, anyway. She appeared to be in the corridor just east of the throne room, the one with the portraits of previous Exalts, including the one of Exalt Oudet Lucina had tripped into and punctured with her shoulder guard before. The dream allowed her to move freely, so she walked, watching the portraits pass as she did so. It didn't quite feel like a dream, which made it easy to forget that it was one. For a moment, it felt like she was home again and if she went up the second staircase and down another hallway, she could knock on her parent's door and poke her head in, just a little, and see their shapes under the blankets. Or perhaps her mother would be in her study near the Mage's Tower, working late again. Sometimes she fell asleep at her desk, but she always woke in the Exalt's chambers once more, and had to remember she was a queen and not merely a tactician.  
  
The corridor was darkened, but by the time she got to the last portrait, she could see it by faintly-flickering candlelight coming in a long rectangle through a half-open door. She saw her little silhouette on the wall, the top of her head just covering the bottom edge of the heavy frame. She felt very small all of a sudden, despite the fact that she was really a bit tall for her age.  
  
In the low light, she could nonetheless see the portrait well enough to tell it was Exalt Emmeryn, the aunt she'd never met, sitting in a soft-looking chair with a soft smile on her face and posture that looked both perfect and natural, one slender hand wrapped around a healing staff. She was by far the youngest of any other Exalt depicted on the wall, painted at perhaps twelve. Although Emmeryn was the centerpiece of the picture, her ever-devoted bodyguard stood with a readied lance just behind the chair in the painting. At the time of the painting, Phila (obviously not a captain, not at that point) couldn't have been that much older than Emmeryn, but her stance was that of a general, despite the childish sparkle in her ruby-red eyes that the painter had somehow managed to capture. Lucina wasn't sure how long it'd been since the painting had been completed, at the time of the dream, but she knew who they were and what had happened to them, in a watered-down version of the events her mother had explained when she asked.  
  
She hadn't realized how young Emmeryn had been upon becoming an Exalt. What was it about being twelve that brought the world crashing down around your feet? She hoped it wasn't genetic. Should she ever have children, she'd have to take extra care when they were twelve. (Though why would she have children? In a world such as the one she lived in, the concept was unthinkable. Even if she succeeded and traveled to the past, there was no guarantee she'd ever be able to see herself as a mother-slash-father-sometimes-depending-on-the-day. She would't subject a child to that sort of life.)  
  
She lingered a minute before the painting, trying hard not to remember it with a broken frame and a slashed canvas, slowly consumed by fire as the castle fell. And then she turned to the light coming through the open door, her boots soft on the stone floor despite the fact that she wasn't _really_ there.  
  
It was another study, Lucina realized, upon seeing the bookshelves stuffed full of magic tomes and law books alike, and the table scattered with papers and quills and bottles of ink. She heard the faint sound of someone writing, coming from the desk just beside the curtained window. For no reason Lucina could discern, the air was tense— as if something very big were about to happen.  
  
The figure at the desk could only be Exalt Emmeryn, though she had set the crown aside and now wrote on the paper in a way that almost seemed rushed. She looked older than she was in the painting, by quite a bit, though she wasn't that much older than Lucina. That was an odd thought— did that mean that, at this point in time, her parents were _her_ age? Lucina wasn't quite sure what to make of that.  
  
As Lucina quietly stepped forwards, the door creaked open on hinges that needed a little greasing. The guest didn't say anything, but Emmeryn did.  
  
"You can come in," she nodded her head towards the guest, not looking up from her letter. She had a soft voice, as Lucina had always imagined, but it sounded tired. She wondered if the stories her father had told about Emmeryn were true— if she could stop a war with words and kindness that shone brighter than the sun.  
  
The guest, a thickly-built figure in riding armor that could only be Captain Phila, walked straight past Lucina as if she weren't even there— which she wasn't— and knelt in front of Emmeryn.  
  
"You should go to bed, your Grace," she said, though in a tone a bit more familiar than Lucina would assume was appropriate for a typical bodyguard-and-royal relationship. "It's safer there, and it's late. You need your sleep."  
  
"It's happening tonight, Phila," Emmeryn replied, finally lifting her head. There were shadows under her tired blue eyes, but a spark of determination that did not seem wont to fade anytime soon. "I know it. People will know something is wrong if they notice I'm still up now. I can't take that chance. Are the children safe? And…"  
  
"I've taken care of it," Phila finished, standing up. "Just as you said. There's not a soul awake in this castle aside from us, and Cordelia just left. They're safe, Emm."  
  
Emmeryn let out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness."  
  
"Still, it isn't wise to stay here," Phila insisted. "If anyone notices, I'll… I'll make something up. You were sleepwalking, or had an urgent need to look something up and didn't want to wake anyone."  
  
Not even _Lucina_ would buy that, which she noted with a grain of salt. Lucina had never quite been the most observant, but even she could tell that Phila was a gods-awful liar and those excuses were weak enough to blow away in a stiff wind.  
  
"Phila, nobody is going to believe that," Emmeryn retorted, raising an eyebrow and voicing exactly what Lucina had thought. "I'm staying here. If I'm to die tonight, I face my death with dignity."  
  
Phila narrowed her eyes. Emmeryn tilted her head, just a little, in a silent retort to Phila's questioning stare. So _that_ was where her father had gotten his stubbornness— Lucina realized now that this was the most likely source, if not the only possible option.  
  
"I suppose I can't deter you," Phila sighed, reluctantly reaching forwards and taking the Exalt's hand. "But you can't convince me to just leave you here. If you _are_ to die tonight— and that's if, not when— I'll protect you, as your bodyguard and as your wife."  
  
Lucina couldn't help but feel like she'd been sucked into a book— the way they acted, it was just like one of Cynthia's fairy tales, only both the royal and the knight were women. In Lucina's opinion, there should be more fairy tales like that. (Cynthia often joked that Lucina and Saria acted like a fairy tale, but that went over Lucina's head.)  
  
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, but the dream versions of Phila and Exalt Emmeryn didn't react. The children they'd referred to could only be their children— August, the elder brother, and Phobos, the younger (though Lucina could swear she'd been told Phobos was a girl, but then, was a thing like gender really that important at all). But she was sure they'd been reported dead on the night Exalt Emmeryn and Phila died.  
  
But then, the same August (or at least someone who claimed to be August) had written her a letter. And why would anyone bother to impersonate a dead cousin when Lucina was fairly sure there were literally no other living people in the world? Who would bother going through that trouble? Lucina couldn't think of a single reason not to believe August's letter.  
  
Lucina turned, creeping out the study door with Falchion drawn, despite the fact she couldn't fight whatever it was that was coming. If Emmeryn knew, or if Phila had sensed what she had, they hadn't reacted. They were standing there, in front of Emmeryn's desk, hands joined. For a fleeting moment, Lucina wondered what they were just standing there for— but then she remembered they had no idea what was happening.  
  
A pair of eyes blinked open in the darkness. Lucina tightened her grip, but they zipped forwards in a shadowy blur past her and into the study— an assassin. Phila shouted a battle cry _("For her Grace!")_ and the assassin's body fell to the floor with a sickening thud, but running footsteps told Lucina there were more on the way.  
  
"Stay behind me, Emm," Lucina heard Phila instruct, but she didn't expect Emmeryn's response.  
  
"You used my name," Emmeryn noted.  
  
"It won't be for the last time." Phila chuckled, but Lucina wasn't paying attention to the between-battle chatting of two lovers. She scanned the darkened hallway and sprinted back towards the entrance to the throne room without realizing where she was going— her dream-self knew more than she did.  
  
She swung reflexively at another hostile form zipping past, but Falchion cut through him like he was made of mist. Only it was more likely Lucina was the one made of mist, since it was only a dream, and she wasn't actually there. It was easy to forget, because everything else felt so real. (However, despite knowing it was a dream, she could not control anything. So much for that.)  
  
She burst through the doors to the throne room, clipping through like a wisp of smoke. When she opened her mouth and pointed Falchion towards the cloaked figure taking the Fire Emblem, Ylisse's royal treasure, off its place on the back wall, she'd intended to say something that'd catch the ne'er-do-well off-guard, something like _"Prepare to face your undoing!"_ that Cynthia would've been proud of, but her throat closed up.  
  
Lucina couldn't move. The figure shouted something in Plegian that Lucina had heard before but didn't understand, and just like that, he was gone. She heard a cry and a grunt of pain from Emmeryn's study, and she darted back in that direction, throwing the theif a glance over her shoulder as if she could somehow have stopped what was happening, even though she knew it was hopeless. At the time this was happening— May of 1415, if she wasn't mistaken— she wasn't even born. Her parents hadn't even gotten married, or engaged at all. In fact, they may have only just met. She shouldn't be expecting herself to be able to somehow fix it (even though she thought that about many things and nonetheless still did).  
  
She didn't want to go back to Emmeryn's study, but she did anyway, sprinting through the halls as if under the impression that she'd be able to do something about it even though she couldn't, that no one was going to expect her to. Lucina somehow expected herself to be able to do _something_ about it despite literally all logic saying the opposite. It was foolish to think that, and yet, she did. Lucina wondered if every Exalt had had those thoughts sometimes, that they were somehow responsible for every problem anyone ever has, no matter how out of their control it may be, and thus a failiure if they didn't fix it. Or was that just her?  
  
There was blood seeping into the carpet of the study from an arrow wound piercing Phila's armor from the back. Phila had known it was hopeless, as shown, but she had pulled Emmeryn into a tight embrace before the arrow stabbed itself into her heart. The assassin had done his job with a knife to Emmeryn's throat. It made Lucina's stomach twist how picture-perfect a death it was— Phila protecting the one she'd sworn to love as only a knight would have, Emmeryn staring her death in the face with a set, calm expression, as if telling her killer "Well played."  
  
 Lucina fell to her knees, staring at the scene head-on. She hadn't been able to stop it— but then, she wasn't really there. She hadn't really been there. It was just a dream.  
  
The scene melted to darkness. Lucina had the sensation of lying down, her head on a rolled-up blanket, something heavy but not unpleasantly so resting on her chest, a form that gave off a pleasant sense of warmth and comfort. She felt a tug in her stomach, the desire to cry, but held it off as quickly as it came.  
  
_No tears, small one,_ a voice told her, and though she didn't recognize it, she knew she'd heard it somewhere before. For a moment, it sounded a little like Emmeryn, and then like her father, and then like Saria. _Fate can be rewritten. Such is told for you._  
  
_But nobody told me anything,_ Lucina tried to say, and she heard the voice give a matronly chuckle.  
  
_You do not believe in fate?_ the voice asked, and Lucina felt herself swallow.  
  
_No,_ she announced, in a moment of bravery. _I think I'd like to write my own story, thank you._  
  
The voice chuckled again, making Lucina's skull hum with a magical sort of energy. _What a very Grimleal way of thinking. I knew you would not disappoint me._  
  
Grimleal? The words made Lucina frown. _But… the Grimleal is who I'm trying to fight. Am I like them?_  
  
_You have Grima's blood,_ the voice said. _But you have mine, too. We are not so different, He and I. Do not think it a bad thing to have the blood of equal and opposite Beings. The Grima I know and the Grima you know are not the same creature._  
  
_Then that means you're…_ Lucina lost her train of thought. At the same time it felt like she should be stumbling over herself to remember proper prayer formation, she also felt like she knew this could happen all along— Naga gave her visions all the time, after all, through her Brand. Of course Naga could talk to her.  
  
_Yes, I am._ The voice hummed pleasantly. _You have done well, my Foreseer. And you know what to do next?_  
  
_What to…_ Lucina frowned. And then she felt herself nod firmly. _Yes. I know._  
  
The voice began to fade. _Wake now, small one. Do not lose your Sight._  
  
Lucina woke, filled with determination.


	16. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Grima _did_ have a reason for all of that, some sort of motive besides wanton chaos, but Marcus was pretty sure it'd destroy his puny human mind if he tried to comprehend it. Neato burrito.

As a tactician, Marcus appreciated good plans.  
  
With a good plan, there was comfort in knowing that the chance of your success was greater than the chance of your failiure at any given moment. In a straightforward battle, where the opponents were evenly matched, having a plan better than your opponent's would be what guaranteed victory, provided that nothing unforseen turned the tables and neither party cheated.  
  
Because of that, back in the day, a good tactician of any sort was essential for any operation. Armies needed tacticians for obvious reasons. Kings needed tacticians to be able to make the best choices for the good of the people. Builders needed tacticians to know where to best put things. Though different types of tacticians had different names, anyone who planned anything explicitly for anyone's benefit was a tactician.  
  
Naturally, good plans came from good tacticians— though to _really_ consider yourself a tactician at all, you needed to be able to come up with good plans. Good plans that would work, or at least that would mostly work. Tacticians, especially military tacticians, had a lot riding on them. It was no wonder his mother's hair had gone gray, between that and her children.  
  
The first step to forming any plan was to ask the essential question, as his mother called it: _What am I trying to do, and how do I go about it with the greatest efficiency?_ With Marcus, he was trying to help Lucina and her friends save their future. A lot of his plan depended on time and people doing what he expected them to do, but if there was a more efficient way of doing it, he'd have figured it out quite some time ago. Marcus knew what he was doing, and knew to appreciate his own ability.  
  
Grima did not seem to have any sort of plan.  
  
His intent seemed to be to bring about the complete and total eradication of humanity, leaving the world overrun with rotting corpse armies and leylines of dark magic and Grima as its overlord of evil. But that hardly sounded like much of a plan at all, or maybe he just didn't know it. Marcus _would_ guess He had an objective for after humanity was gone, since being the only intelligent being in the world sounded pretty darn boring, but it wasn't like Marcus would be around to see it. Grima seemed to want destruction for destruction's sake, burning forests to ash and leveling mountains just for the hell of it. The only reason He hadn't destroyed Dahiri yet was because it was sacred to the Grimleal, plus the _minor_ detail of the fact He'd end up destroying His own vessel and then there really _would_ be nothing, which would sort of make everything He'd done so far more than a little pointless. Maybe Grima _did_ have a reason for all of that, some sort of motive besides wanton chaos, but Marcus was pretty sure it'd destroy his puny human mind if he tried to comprehend it. Neato burrito.  
  
Of course, there was a finite number of things Grima would really _enjoy_ demolishing in the world, so Marcus guessed He got His kicks by shredding books and fabrics He found in the castle, and lately He'd expanded to carpets and doorframes. Marcus couldn't pretend to understand why He didn't use those godlike powers He bragged about so much, but one of the very few things Marcus could find funny nowadays was the image of Grima, six red eyes and pointed teeth and everything, sitting in a pile of mangled legal documents and clenching the pages of a dictionary between His teeth, growling and shaking it back and fourth and slicing at it with ragged claw fingernails. It was a little like having a really mean dog, except that it really wasn't, and the comparison sort of fell flat there.  
  
Marcus supposed he was lucky Grima never touched the castle library— even He seemed to respect that the library had become Marcus's space, and He couldn't enter without explicit permission, and even then He couldn't touch anything in it. If Grima were a dog, He'd be a big, angry dog that wasn't housebroken and did fuck-all besides destroy things and bark, but that nonetheless understood what Not Allowed meant. Now, Marcus doubted that a single dog to ever exist ever wanted to erase human existance for reasons literally incomprehensible by the human mind, but Grima seemed a lot less scary when Marcus pictured Him as a dog. _Bad Grima,_ he could say while whapping His head with a rolled-up newspaper. _No apocalypse for you._  
  
The thought amused him— but then, everything did on some level. After leaving the neighborhood of "safe and well-adjusted," his mental state had lingered in "constant fear and paranoia" for a year or so before it stumbled into "anger and violent urges not entirely caused by pubescent mood swings." Sometime after that it'd gone into "breathing creatures and blips on a projection are virtually indistinguishable to me unless they are literally staring me in the face and I have no qualms about brutally murdering them," though it wasn't long after that before that got boring and his sanity edged into "an ever-stretching expansive fog in which everything is incredibly boring and I find it highly annoying to have to do anything at all," where it seemed to stay for at least a year and a half, but he wasn't quite sure. For a short time after that it seemed to be more like "there is nothing but darkness in the world and i will soon melt into the void," but then it'd done an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the edge of explicable sanity and fallen straight through to the other side of "nothing matters so I can do whatever I want but thanks to this obnoxious and violent monster I have had constant contact with for the past seven years I mostly want to summon zombies and watch them destroy each other because violence is hilarious, and I also would probably not have any issues with murdering my sister if I think it'd be funny."  
  
At some point, not long before meeting up with Lucina again, Marcus realized he'd stretched past that last zone and into "wow I'm incredibly fucked-up in the head but I know exactly why so I can effectively act like I'm a certified brainwashed-and-crazy minion of darkness while mentally lying in a ditch of my own loneliness and self-loathing, cool." As far as he could tell, that was where he'd likely stay. _It's not that bad,_ he'd say if you asked. _I mean, sure, I'm probably beyond any sort of help and watching reanimated corpses destroy each other is still really hilarious, which is definitely not healthy at all, but check out this cool trick I can make the Risen do! They look like they're tap-dancing!_  
  
(It wasn't so much tap-dancing as it was spasming in excruciating pain that didn't affect them because they didn't have brains, but a boy could pretend.)  
  
Marcus leaned back on one leg of his chair, one foot on the edge of his chosen writing desk and the other on a crate he used as a side table. He idly tossed a wrapped-up hunk of pemmican to himself from one hand to the other with some intention of eating it eventually, staring at the high ceiling of the library and wondering if he could teach corpses to square dance. That'd be even funnier than watching them kill each other, he'd bet.  
  
"Have you ever wondered what's in this stuff?" he wondered aloud, sending a glance to the knocked-over bookshelf at the back of the room. "It's kind of gross if you think about it. You get all this meat and dry it 'til it's brittle, and then you literally grind it into powder and mix it with melted fat. How do you even melt fat? Ew. And then you mix pounded-up cranberries and chokecherries into it, and it never spoils. It's like somewhere along the line, it stops being food. But I mean, if it's pemmican or slowly starving to death…"  
  
He grinned a little, watching the small figure standing next to the window seat shudder. Maybe it was a bit prideful, but he couldn't help but inflate a little whenever he saw proof his Talisman was working.  
  
"Marcus, ew," the figure whined. "I haven't even eaten lunch yet and I feel like losing it. If you find pemmican so weird, why do you keep eating it?"  
  
"It's that or starve," Marcus shrugged, kicking off the table with the exact amount of force required to spin him around and land the chair right where it needed to be to face Morgan. "Though I read you can put it in soup— some water and flour and maybe some potatoes for starch, and it's probably really tasty. Almost like actual food!"  
  
Morgan plopped herself onto the window seat, hands in her lap like she was sitting in a circle with her fellow small children for storytime. "You're not just gonna talk about food this whole time, are you? That's boring."  
  
Marcus chuckled impishly. "Cut me off, then. What's your report?"  
  
"Oh, Lucina and her friends are really nice!" Morgan brightened considerably, clapping her hands together. "I'm the youngest one there, so it's kind of weird, but everyone's really cool! I don't really know how to do anything, so I kind of just help everyone with what they do. I'm getting really good at watching the soup so it doesn't boil over! And Saria is teaching me how to use my dad's knife, because I'm not strong enough to use a sword."  
  
Marcus had to smile a little as he listened— he wasn't really aware of it, but it was a real smile. Despite everything, Morgan was still Morgan.  
  
She was halfway through describing her successes at learning to fight with a knife in vivid detail when Grima's fist pounded on the door to the library— one initial _THUNK,_ then a stuttering _TH-THUNK,_ and then another two steady _THUNK, THUNKS._  
  
"Boy," Grima called from the other side of the door. "I have a task."  
  
"Duty calls," Marcus mumbled, sighing and standing up. "Come on, he doesn't even know you exist."  
  
He shoved the door open, a confused Morgan trailing close behind him. She'd never witnessed Grima in person, but she knew what He was like, from what Marcus had said. For her sake, Marcus hoped he wouldn't be too bad that day.  
  
Grima clomped through the halls in a faltering, uneven gait, saying something about moving the locations of the last four Gemstones in the Archives, to which Marcus was only half-listening. He wondered if he could convince Grima to leave for Mount Prism if he phrased it right.  
  
"You know, Lord Grima," he ventured, when Grima finally paused, staring at the Plegian throne and the Fire Emblem hung on the wall above it. "I was thinking. If I were one of Lucina's Army, what would I do?"  
  
 "What does that have to do with anything?" Grima grumbled.  
  
"Hear me out," Marcus began, holding his hands out. "If I were one of Lucina's Army, I'd aim to perform the Awakening to try and destroy you. They do, technically, have a direct descendant of Naga with them, after all. So if they had all five Gemstones and the Fire Emblem, they could probably manage to do it."  
  
Grima hummed, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snarl, but He didn't say anything, so Marcus kept going.  
  
"But, you know," he shrugged. "Think of what you could do with that power. You'd crush them once and for all. No more little thorns in your side! Isn't that what you want, Lord Grima?"  
  
"No more thorns in my side," Grima repeated. He tilted Robin's chin to the side in thought, an expression Marcus had seen on his mother's face before. It always meant she was going into strategy-mode, seeing every solution at once and working at picking out what would work best. When the gears started turning, Marcus generally started listening.  
  
"I must admit, that isn't _terribly_ moronic, for you," Grima admitted. _High praise from a false god,_ Marcus thought wryly, but he didn't say it. "With that power… And we want power, right, Rajni?"  
  
His voice had dropped to a low rumble that reminded Marcus of a snake, but his mother was clearly trying to resist.  
  
"Put a sock in it," she said in her real voice, with astounding clarity. She twitched and yanked at her hair, ragged nails digging into her scalp. She winced with half of her face and snarled with the other, wrestling the creature in her head for control. Marcus admitted he'd never heard his mother tell anyone to put a sock anywhere, except in the sock drawer, so it was a little weird to hear. And even then, it was all of the socks, and not just _a_ sock. Why would his mother tell anyone to put only _one_ sock anywhere? That didn't make any sense.  
  
"Right, so," Marcus clapped his hands together. "When are we leaving, huh? Do we want to make the trip out there and crush them from a distance, or make them come to us? I'm down for destroying things and all, but, y'know, a game plan would be nice."  
  
Grima stared at him through six red, unblinking eyes, though Marcus could tell Grima was an incredible level of _done_ right then. He heard Morgan giggle at how comical it was, which he didn't blame her for— unless she'd found a cockroach to torture instead, which was very like her. He wasn't sure why, but Morgan seemed to like finding bugs and pulling off their legs and wings. For some reason, it was even creepier than watching Risen guts flying everywhere. Had he rubbed off on her? Marcus wasn't sure how to feel about that.  
  
Grima hummed again, lip curled to reveal ragged yellow fangs that had once been his mother's teeth. There were bits of paper between her teeth from chewing on the books, and Grima didn't care enough to remove them. It looked like it hurt, if you asked Marcus, but nobody ever asked Marcus. (Small wonder as to why.)  
  
"I could crush them," He remarked. "I have every right. These wretched Children of Naga are merely inconveniences. They cannot see the world I intend to create!"  
  
"So we could go to Mount Prism and crush them," Marcus brought up. "We've got the Fire Emblem and all the Gemstones. If we convince them to follow us, we could anihilate the world and destroy Naga's champions in the same breath. Tactically, it's a smart move."  
  
"Tactically speaking," Robin mused, before Grima tore control back. "We're going. We must! Oh, how sweet my revenge will be. If only Naga were alive to witness. Get the Emblem, boy." But there was no more Naga and, through that, no more real Grima. That was sort of how the concept of 'equal and opposite' worked. If one balancing factor was gone, the other would go all out of whack and burn itself out. This being on a cosmic scale, the mortals were still feeling the effects of this. Eight years for a god was nothing.  
  
Grima turned on a heel, marching towards the palace doors. That had almost worked better than Marcus intended— He was fired up now, ready to smash Lucina and friends under His foot like a bunch of cockroaches. Morgan was following, an exaggerated imitation of Grima's clomping steps. It took all of Marcus's willpower not to laugh as he reached for the Fire Emblem hanging on the wall, tucking the tarnished thing under his arm. It was about the size of a regular shield but twice as heavy, and it took his scrawny arms a lot of effort to carry.  
  
"Grima's kind of a jerk," Morgan summed up, because Grima couldn't hear her. "Do this, do that! Like He owns the place. Though He kind of does. Still, there's no need to be _rude_ about it."  
  
Marcus hummed agreement, trotting behind Grima as best as he could. Grima, who had shoved Robin out of the picture, admired Argent as He walked with a cruel glint in His six eyes. Marcus wanted nothing more than to punch Grima in His stupid face, but Grima didn't really have a corporeal face, and if he punched his mother, that'd just make him a jerk. She was already an old lady, pretty much, and what sort of monster did you have to be to punch an old lady?  
  
"I wanna meet your mom, when this is all over," Morgan decided. "I mean, she's my dad's twin sister, and my dad was seriously smart. And so are you, so if your mom taught you all you know, I can't wait to see what tricks she has up _her_ sleeves! I bet they're amazing."  
  
"When this is all over," Marcus echoed, chuckling. "That's a nice thing to say."  
  
"Well, Luci says so," Morgan shrugged. "Lucina's gonna fix everything. He gave his word as an Exalt, and he's not gonna go back on it. Luci can do anything. Just you watch!"  
  
"So he's a he today," Marcus hummed. Listening to her talk about Lucina in such a way was incredibly familiar— likely because he'd said those same things at other points in time. _Luci can do anything,_ he'd said at age five when Lucina had expressed doubt in being as good as their father at swordsmanship. _Luci can do anything, so there!_  
  
"Luci and his friends are all really nice to me," Morgan recalled. "So I try to help 'em all out however I can, but I'm only eleven, and can't do much. But I can try. I want to help Lucina save us— you, too. He's not gonna leave you behind."  
  
Marcus chuckled darkly. "And what if he has to? He can't be the 'older sibling savior' forever."  
  
"He won't!" Morgan said firmly, stomping her little foot. "He'll find a way, just wait! Lucina can do anything!"  
  
Marcus could only shake his head, reaching over to ruffle his little cousin's hair. "There are some things even Lucina can't do, cuz."   
  
Morgan frowned. "You're wrong. I know you're never wrong, but— but you are this time! Lucina won't let you get left behind. He told me so. He said he wasn't going to leave you alone again."  
  
The words felt like sticking a smoking match to a numb hand. He could see it, could tell there was supposed to be searing sensation, but nothing came except a dull pressure and vague feeling of what may be warmth. Marcus wanted to react, but he felt the emotion wrapped in gauze, processing through a pool of molasses.  
  
"We'll have to see about that," he mumbled. "You ought to get back to them, cuz. They'll miss you."  
  
"No!" Morgan said stubbornly, grabbing Marcus's hand. "I'm not leaving!"  
  
"Morgan, go," he said again, more firmly. "I'm not playing this game with you."  
  
"I won't leave," Morgan insisted, her lower lip trembling. "Not 'til you promise to come back with us, too! Lucina an' Saria and Cynthia and Owain and all of them are my family, but so are you, and I don't wanna leave you behind just because you think that somehow you don't deserve to be happy! S-so you can take whatever's telling you you're not good enough, and shove it up your stupid butt!"  
  
To prove her point, she put her tiny hands on Marcus's chest and shoved with all her strength, which wasn't much, but for Marcus, already off-balance with the weight of the heavy shield, it was enough to send him toppling backwards.  
  
The next several seconds happened very slowly.  
  
Marcus stumbled back, the Fire Emblem flipping out of his hands.  
  
Grima turned, an impatient snarl on Robin's features.  
  
Five sets of eyes watched the shield flip through the air.  
  
Marcus dove to catch the Fire Emblem, to no avail.  
  
Morgan stumbled back in shock at what she'd done, tears springing to her eyes.  
  
The shield cracked cleanly into fragments, stemming from the point of impact at a corner.  
  
The fragments of stone— common stone, carved and painted to look like the metal of the Fire Emblem— skidded across the floor.  
  
This was the kind of moment that occurred when the unthinkable happened— when you dropped a cake you'd worked so hard on in front of your client, when you tripped walking across the stage at your graduation, when you kicked a ball straight towards the head of the superintendent. The moment you realized _you fucked up,_ and there was nothing you could do about it. The moment shit got real.  
  
Perhaps, Marcus thought weakly, August hadn't been just being vague when he said there was more to the Fire Emblem than everyone thought.


	17. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was he, perhaps, trying to be funny? Lucina frowned, trying to decipher what his brother could mean. Certainly he wasn't serious when he said to put the talisman in a soup. That was ridiculous.

All subtlety about vanishing to see Marcus was lost when Morgan ran back to the safehouse in tears.  
  
There was no ceremony to it. She burst through the front door and ran into Saria's arms, sending the dinner crowd into even further commotion, this time with hunger and confusion. She was sobbing uncontrollably, clinging tightly to Saria's dress, and Saria had little choice in the matter but to rub her back gently until Morgan dared to lift her head, trying to stumble out an explanation over the confused clamoring.  
  
"M-Marcus," Morgan sobbed. "H-he… th-the thingy-Emblem… i-it b-broke a-and I… a-and I did it, it was m-my fault… I m-messed up!"  
  
"No, Morgan, it's alright," Saria shushed her, without really knowing what she was even talking about. "I'm sure that whatever broke can be fixed. Alright?"  
  
"B-but, I," Morgan croaked. "M-Marcus… M-Marcus is gonna b-be in trouble, 'c-cause of me!"  
  
Saria frowned in confusion. Lucina had furrowed his eyebrows, watching Morgan with all the bewilderment of a parent whose child had just burst through the door going on and on about _something_ with no clue as to what it was, just that it was clearly very important to them. The analogy wasn't far off— Saria had practically adopted Morgan on sight, and Lucina knew how much the girl looked up to him, so had tried to step into the role with grace and aplomb. He wasn't quite sure how much success he'd had thus far, but he tried.  
  
"Slow down for a minute," he said patiently, crouching and setting a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "What broke?"  
  
"Th-the shield thing, the one Marcus talks about," Morgan said miserably, her face puffy. "Th-the Fire Emblem. Th-that's what it's called, right?" She looked up to Saria for assistance, and Saria nodded and pet her hair reassuringly.  
  
A murmur went through the ranks. _You can't break the Fire Emblem,_ someone said. _Does that mean Grima's was a fake?_ someone else added. _Holy cheese._  
  
Holy cheese, indeed. Lucina frowned, wondering what Morgan was even doing with Marcus _anyway_ (but then wasn't the time to ask that, since Morgan was clearly upset and something to do with Marcus had happened).  
  
"Morgan," Lucina said patiently, carefully dabbing the fat tears from Morgan's cheeks. "Please tell me what happened as clearly as you can. I promise it'll be alright."  
  
Morgan gulped in a breath and nodded, still clinging to Saria. It'd be alright because Lucina said so— and Lucina could do anything, it was a fact. "I-I went t-to see Marcus," she managed. "B-because Grima can't see me, 'c-cause of my T-Talisman. Marcus made it s-so I'd be safe. It's, um, the same kind of spell th-that's on the safehouse, I think. H-he explained it sometime, but I wasn't really listening. A-and I told him w-we wouldn't leave him behind, 'c-cause you said so, Lucina! Only, h-he didn't believe me, s-so I got mad and I pushed him, a-and the shield broke! I didn't… I d-didn't mean t-to…" Her lower lip trembled, and Saria rubbed her back gently.  
  
"It's alright, you didn't mean to," Lucina promised. "What was Marcus doing with the Fire Emblem? Did Grima ask him to move it?"  
  
Morgan sniffled. "Yeah," she recalled, frowning. "Marcus told Grima th-that it'd be t-tactically sound to go to Mount Prism and do the Awakening. I dunno what that means, b-but it's probably real important, right? A-and he said it'd be a good idea because then Grima'd have enough power to destroy us, b-but he probably didn't mean it 'cause Marcus is a good guy like us, and he probably has a plan. So Grima said, 'get the Fire Emblem because we're going to Mount Prism,' or whatever to that effect, and Marcus said 'yeah, okay' and they were about to leave when I started arguing with Marcus, a-and… yeah."  
  
Lucina's eyes widened, but for Morgan's sake, she kept her head. "Did he say anything else before you left, Morgan? This is very important information."  
  
"Yeah," Morgan nodded. "Y-yeah, he said… he said to tell you to move out, too. Right now, as long as you keep this."  
  
Morgan fumbled with something in the pocket of her coat— it looked like another one of Marcus's Talismans on a braided cord, but larger and a bit simpler than Morgan's. There was an instruction booklet, which Lucina took a look at next.  
  
_MARCUS'S TALISMAN: INSTRUCTION MANUAL (HECK YEAH, STAYING ALIVE IN THE FACE OF GRIMA TRYING TO KILL YOU!)_  
  
_METHOD ONE: Wear it around your neck! (I'm assuming this is Lucina reading, but if it isn't, tell her/him that.) It'll provide protection from Grima and the Risen for your entire group in a twenty-yard radius, so long as you never take it off._  
_METHOD TWO: Put it in a soup! Take some hot water and boil it in there for about fifteen minutes and you'll not only have a good broth (it's a little bitter and tastes kind of like metal and old boots, but hey, that's dark magic), but anyone who drinks it will have an hour of protection until they return to the main area. Good for patrol, so long as you have someone good with time!_  
_METHOD THREE: Set it on fire! I don't know what that does but I'm assuming something awesome, since what else happens when you set things on fire? (Don't answer that.)_  
_METHOD FOUR: Don't wear it at all! It'll still protect you if you keep it in a bag or whatever, but I mean, I put a cord on it and everything. It'd be a little rude to not wear it after I bothered to do that for you._  
_METHOD FIVE: Leave it behind! Say you still don't trust me and you'd rather take your chances with Grima's armies of the undead haunting you at every turn. That's fine! Leave it in the safehouse and I'm sure the cockroaches will appreciate the protection._  
_METHOD SIX: Eat it! Not reccomended._  
_METHOD SEVEN: Boil it, mash it, put it in a stew… wait, that's potatoes. Never mind._  
  
_Anyway, use any of those methods you want and come meet me and Grima (Grima and me?) at Mount Prism. I've given the signal to August and Phobos, so they'll come meet you there. Sorry if I kill any of you, I'll try to lighten up on that!_  
  
_Hugs and Risen kisses,_  
_Marcus (AKA servant of Grima, prince of darkness and hell and all that. Hi, Nah!)_  
  
Was he, perhaps, trying to be funny? Lucina frowned, trying to decipher what his brother could mean. Certainly he wasn't serious when he said to put the talisman in a soup. That was ridiculous.  
  
"Marcus's always right," Morgan mumbled, sniffling. "H-he said to give that to you, 'cause you'll need protection."  
  
"But what's the point?" Laurent brought up, shaking his head in resignation. "We can't beat Grima if He manages to perform the Awakening. He literally intends to crush us. We won't stand a chance."  
  
"I have to agree," Gerome hummed. "It doesn't make sense to follow Him anymore. A valiant last attempt means nothing if it ultimately ends in our slaughter."  
  
Kjelle scoffed. "Cowards. And you call yourselves men! I've seen lizards with more guts than you've got."  
  
"So, what, you'd have us slaughtered, is that it?" Gerome challenged. Kjelle, true to her nature, stared him down, folding her muscular arms and cocking her head to the side. It was a face-off of guts and homosexuality in equal parts— Lucina felt as if he should take cover.  
  
"Gawds-dammit!" Brady exploded, punctuated by slamming his hands down on the sides of the pot of soup. "Make up yer minds, will ya? I gotta know if I should pack this up or not! This stuff don't travel easy, y'know."  
  
"Can I just eat dinner?" Marti mumbled, turning to where her brother stood— or where he had been. Ke'tu, almost as if he were sensible, had vanished into thin air. _Damn it, brother._  
  
The clamor grew, the group separating into three factions. There were those in favor of inaction behind Laurent and Gerome (Inigo, Brady, Yarne, Noire, and Nah), those in favor of action behind Kjelle (Owain, Cynthia, Severa, and Marti), and the rest (Lucina, Saria, Morgan, and Ke'tu.) Lucina had dealt with this before, but never quite so vocally. It was the sort of situation that made him, in equal parts, want to take charge until the sides saw reason and hide under his bedroll until it was over.  
  
"Everyone, can we just—" he tried to intervene, to no avail. He sighed, looking to Saria and Morgan. Saria had a frown etched deeply into her pretty features, lips pursed and ears pricked. Lucina had no doubt she was sifting through bits of conversation and picking out the important bits. And Morgan was just getting more upset, sniffling and burying her head in Saria's chest as Saria ran her fingers through Morgan's messy hair, a gesture intended to be comforting in a time when that was what Morgan needed. She was just a child, after all, and it was all any of them could do to preserve a bit of that concept of childhood in such times.  
  
He couldn't just let them destroy one another. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the tie out of his hair and pulled it back into a tighter tail, gathered at the nape of his neck, and tied it back again. Then he cracked his knuckles, cleared his throat, and began again.  
  
"Everyone!" he demanded, using that voice he'd learned from his father not for the first time. Like soldiers to their general, the army of friends snapped to attention, all argument ceasing. Even Saria stood up a little straighter, while Morgan, who had never had that voice used on her nor ever been part of any organized army, stood in confusion.  
  
Lucina took a breath. "I must say, it's disheartening to see my army arguing about something like this. Nearly as disheartening as it is to realize that it's even worth arguing about to you— do you really think it's even a question as to whether or not we'll go up against Grima?"  
  
Nobody dared respond, which was fine by Lucina, as the question was rhetorical anyway. "Have I not said we will fight to our last stand? Have I not made it clear enough? What sort of soldiers are you, to even think of turning away now?"  
  
He noticed Kjelle smirk, just a little, and turned a glare towards her icily enough her smirk dropped like a stone. "And the rest of you, do not think yourselves in the right! It is imperative now more than ever to work together. We decided three years ago that, if we are to save our future, personal disputes must be put aside for the greater cause. Unless some of you have alliances that lie elsewhere, we all share one goal."  
  
Noticing the significantly-humbled faces of his army, Lucina nodded firmly. "My friends, we cannot give in now. We have come so far in the face of adversity, it is tempting to give in when it seems hopeless. And this… this is quite a bleak situation. We don't have any of the Gemstones, nor do we have any idea where the Fire Emblem is. But we do have each other, and we have our health, and we have our memories. Grima's only drive is to crush us, but are we going to let that happen? Will we dare to fail in a task we have sworn to complete?"  
  
The intended effect of that was to fire everyone up, and that was the effect it had. Lucina recieved a unanimous cry of _NO!_ and several fists raised into the air in solidarity. He nodded again, resting a hand on Falchion. That, he was sure, was what he liked to see.  
  
"We move out after supper," he announced. "It'll be a late night tonight. With Marcus's Talisman, we have a bit of a grace period, but it isn't much. Gerome, about how far away is Mount Prism?"  
  
"Five days' march, give or take," Gerome guessed.  
  
"We'll make it in four," Lucina decided. "We're nearly to our final battle, my friends. I can feel it."  
  
He raised his chin, not really looking at any point in reality. No, Lucina saw beyond that— he saw a field of grass rippling like ocean waves in the light breeze, a sky with clouds that were not hazy and gray, a sun that shone without a meek, faltering glow. A world with life and vibrancy, where people lived and died and loved. A world where there were soldiers to fight so Lucina and his friends did not have to. A world with parents, with siblings, with partners, with friends. A world with peace.  
  
With a rallying shout of agreement, that was that. He looked back down at Saria, letting out a short sigh. His speeches, though he was very good at them, could be undoubtedly stressful.  
  
"You're a brilliant speaker, Luce," Saria assured him, aiming to kiss his cheek and ending up pecking his jaw. He crouched a little to allow better access, though the height difference of five inches they had wasn't much.  
  
"I certainly hope so," he breathed, settling an arm around her shoulders. "It'd make the way my stomach flutters afterwards a little more worth it."  
  
Saria chuckled, and for a moment, Lucina allowed himself to soak in the moment before they were underway, towards the battle that more than likely would be their last. Whether or not they'd die in the battle at Mount Prism remained to be seen (though how he wished he'd get a vision about it, a helpful vision for once), but they couldn't back out now. They had a job to do, and by all the powers that remained, they were going to do it.


	18. Façade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerome pulled a small, flattish package wrapped in cloth out of his bag and offered it. Lucina unwrapped it, his fingertips tracing the shape of butterfly wings on the hard blue leather. It was obviously handmade, perhaps readjusted from one of his old masks, but Lucina had to wonder when Gerome had found the time to craft it.
> 
> He tried it on. It fit, oddly enough, like a glove.

They marched out at dusk.  
  
It was the perfect time to march if you asked Lucina, because it wasn't the time of day the damnably hot Plegian sun was beating down and making everyone's armor feel like lead weights in the sand. His mother had never spoken much about Plegia to her children, and never ever to Chrom, but Lucina knew from a story she'd once told that traveling long distances through Plegia was best done after dark.  
  
The plan was to march through the night and camp at dawn, which would no doubt be difficult to adjust to, but Laurent had suggested it and Laurent was very rarely wrong. So once dawn came again and they'd come across an abandoned city to the west of the Ylisse-Plegia border, Lucina's army set up camp. Lucina did not actually have much choice in the matter, given that as soon as he announced it was time to stop, most of the group let out a tired groan of gratitude and collapsed around Laurent's tome.  
  
Clearly, that would have to be that.  
  
Lucina couldn't blame them. Although he'd taken watch first (not because he didn't trust Marcus's Talisman, of course), he was near nodding off himself. The sunbeams, though weak without Naga's energy, felt like spears through his tired eyelids. He wished he could lean around the shade of the ruined fortress and blow it out like a candle flame. Perhaps he'd be plunging the world into an eternal darkness, but if it meant he could get his damn sleep that was perfectly alright with him.  
  
He yawned. Gerome, who had taken watch with him for reasons Lucina would likely never decipher, echoed the gesture.  
  
"Gods, this seemed like such a good idea when Laurent suggested it," Lucina muttered, shifting Saria's head in his lap. "And here I am, facing the fact, and all I want to do is sleep."  
  
Gerome grunted agreement. "It being the first day traveling after a few months in one place likely doesn't help."  
  
"Definitely not," Lucina agreed. "But if we're to travel to the past, we have to stop Grima. It's the only way."  
  
A moment passed, but Gerome nodded sagely. "Of course. I don't doubt that. Earlier was… I suppose I wasn't thinking. Forgive me."  
  
"There's nothing to forgive." Lucina shrugged it off, perhaps too easily for Gerome to really be assured by it. "We all have moments of doubt, and it's easy to be afraid in a time like this."  
  
He blinked in surprise. "Afraid? Lucina, I'm—"  
  
"You can say it, you know," Lucina interrupted. "It's alright to be afraid. Just because all of you apparenly pledged to follow me to the ends of the planet doesn't mean you aren't allowed to have reservations. In your place, I certainly would."  
  
Gerome sighed. "Sharp as always, your Grace. I suppose I can only blame my own humanity for that."  
  
"I hate to be the one to say it, but you're sort of stuck there," Lucina brought up. Gerome chuckled, though there was very little humor behind it.  
  
"Have you ever thought, though," he hummed. "Just how _insane_ it sounds? We are a group of sixteen war orphans, setting out to avenge our dead parents and save our infant selves— as well as billions we've never met— from the same fate by spiritually summoning a dead diety through said diety's flesh-and-blood grandchild, in the process saving the very concept of our future from another diety that's taken over your mother's body and enlisted the servitude of your younger brother, who happens to be helping us through some master plan no one but he knows. It's a wonder what our parents will say to that once we're back."  
  
_Once we're back._ Lucina had to smile a little at the unintentional optimism Gerome was showing, even if he _was_ right. "Well, that isn't exactly an issue that we can dance around," Lucina admitted. "Though who's to say we find them right away? More than likely we'll have to pass off as normal allies until the last moment. It might be better that way."  
  
"You mean, _you'll_ have to," Gerome corrected. "I don't intend to spend more time than I need in that future. It's too risky, and anyway, those people aren't our parents."  
  
Lucina frowned. "Of course they're our parents, just… parents to versions of us that aren't yet born, if Naga sends us back to the intended time. What do you mean by that, Gerome?"  
  
"I mean," Gerome sighed. "I admit now I'm still apprehensive about what impact this will have on the timelines. What happens if something goes cosmically wrong, to a point no amount of divine intervention will fix it? Although it's unlikely I'll convince anyone else, that is exactly what I intend to do."  
  
"You make it sound like we're marching to our deaths," Lucina tried to laugh, though it didn't work. "I thought you had more faith in my leadership than that, Gerome."  
  
Gerome scowled. "It isn't that I don't."  
  
"I wasn't saying anything to the contrary." Lucina somewhat regretted what he'd said— it was a little mean, after all.  
  
"Still, it isn't that I doubt you," Gerome insisted. "Exalt apparent or not, I trust you completely. I do hope you know that."  
  
Lucina met his eyes, behind their ever-present mask. Naga only knew how he kept that thing free of scuffs and scratches in a time like theirs, and Naga, being dead and all, would likely never tell a soul. Gerome wore a very literal mask as well as a figurative one, as anyone with half a brain could figure, but for the most part, he wore it so naturally people just figured that being guarded and secretive was just Gerome being Gerome. Lucina didn't know how Laurent had finagled his way behind that mask, but the both of them seemed happier for it, so who was Lucina to question it? Some things remained secret, and that was perfectly alright.  
  
Gerome sighed, turning his head. "You're an incredible leader, Lucina. You're likely the only one in this time— in _any_ time, for that matter— who could turn _these_ idiot children into a functioning army. Truly, I'm honored to fight with you."  
  
"But?" Lucina prompted, raising an eyebrow. He had a sinking feeling that there was something awful coming.  
  
Gerome pursed his lips as he confirmed Lucina's supicion. "I don't believe I'll be coming back to fight with you after we arrive in the past. I don't want to interfere with what's already written. So after I free Minerva with her own kind, I'm putting my axe away for good. I thought I should tell you now."  
  
"That's ridiculous," Lucina blurted. Saria shifted a little, and Lucina started gently running his fingers through her hair. "What are you talking about? You can't just— just leave."  
  
"I can, and I am," Gerome said simply. "It's for the best."  
  
"As your Exalt, I disagree," Lucina retorted. "You're one of us, Gerome. Are you really going to give that up so easily?"  
  
He sighed, and Lucina could tell he'd hit a nerve there. "Lucina, I've thought about it for quite some time. In fact, it might be a better idea for you to consider it, too. You said you wanted to marry Saria, didn't you— do you intend to marry her in the midst of a war campaign?"  
  
Lucina narrowed his eyes. "And what about Laurent?" he countered. "What if he decides to stay with us? Are you going to be content with more than likely never seeing him again?"  
  
As they say, shots had been fired. For half a second, Gerome looked almost shocked Lucina would go there— before remembering that he'd gone there first, and thus probably deserved it.  
  
Gerome really should've known Lucina would bring that up. "I admit I hadn't thought that far," he sighed. "But my point still stands. And more to it, are you really doing what's best for yourself, either? You don't exactly blend in with a crowd, you know. Someone's bound to recognize that Brand in your eye, and then where will the timeline be?"  
  
"Nobody's going to look that close," Lucina insisted. "And the color of my hair isn't that unusual. Noire's is blue, too, you know. You worry too much." Really, Noire's hair was more of a silvery greyish-blue, but that wasn't the point.  
  
"I worry exactly the right amount," Gerome shot back, making Lucina roll his eyes. "And you can still see it if you _happen_ to glance twice. Combined with your hair— the _exact_ shade of the prince of Ylisse— eyebrows will be raised."  
  
"Well, I can't change my hair color," Lucina admitted. "But… hmm." Experimentally, he untied his hair and combed part of it over one eye. Predictably, it looked ridiculous, and Gerome raised an eyebrow.  
  
He reached over and gently whapped Lucina's head. "You look foolish. Put your hair back."  
  
"That isn't any way to address your Exalt," Lucina huffed, but it was in jest, and he tied his hair back at the nape of his neck. "What should I do, then? Wear an eyepatch? Gouge out my left eye? I've considered that before, and think it'd be considerably more useful then." Not that he'd ever do it, but from time to time, it seemed like a good option.  
  
Gerome cocked his head to the side as if he'd had an idea. "Perhaps something else," he reasoned. "Something like… a mask?"  
  
"A mask?" Lucina questioned. "Where will you…" Oh.  
  
Gerome pulled a small, flattish package wrapped in cloth out of his bag and offered it to her. Lucina unwrapped it, his fingertips tracing the shape of butterfly wings on the hard blue leather. It was obviously handmade, perhaps readjusted from one of his old masks, but Lucina had to wonder when Gerome had found the time to craft it.  
  
He tried it on. It fit, oddly enough, like a glove.  
  
"So what do you think?" Gerome asked, wringing his hands without realizing it. He was more nervous about his idea than Lucina had thought.  
  
Lucina smiled a little. "It's lovely," he decided. "And I think it'll do nicely. I'll tuck up my hair, too, and take another name. Even if I intend to end things before the Lucina of that timeline is born, it'd probably be a little odd if Ylisse had two Lucinas running around."  
  
"You look quite masculine with the mask," Gerome added. "And Lucina isn't the most masculine of names, either."  
  
"That's true," Lucina admitted. "Hm. What fits, though? I suppose I'll have to think of that later. It's a problem for tomorrow."  
  
"That sounds suspiciously like procrastination," Gerome said wryly. "Prince 'I challenge my fate,' the procrastinator."  
  
"That's Exalt, to you," Lucina corrected, taking off the mask and wrapping it up once more, tucking it into his pack. "If you're going to insult me, do it with the right title."  
  
Gerome rolled his eyes, and though he couldn't see behind the mask, Lucina knew from the way Gerome tilted his head. "Of course. Forgive me, _Exalt_ Procrastinator."  
  
Lucina chuckled. "That's better. And I should thank you to remember it."  
  
Gerome couldn't help but smile, one of his rare little smiles he reserved for special occasions. (The big smiles were, thus far, Laurent's and Laurent's alone.) There was a reason he hadn't mentioned his choice to Laurent yet— if talking to Lucina had made him reconsider, if only for a minute, Laurent's no-doubt-academic rebuttal would make him regret ever thinking of making that choice. But then, what sort of knight was he if he abandoned his Exalt? Even if his Exalt had others who filled the role just as well, he couldn't just _leave._ (And yet, he kept telling himself he would.)  
  
"You ought to sleep," he suggested. "I'll wake Laurent to take watch with me. You need your rest."  
  
"So do you," Lucina retorted. But he yawned despite himself, and the idea of lying down suddenly sounded very appealing. Gerome raised an eyebrow, his point proven.  
  
Lucina sighed. "Alright, fine," he humphed. "But promise me you'll sleep, too. I won't have you falling asleep on Minerva again. We'll already be dealing with reptilian lethargy that once hibernation season starts."  
  
"It's brumation," Gerome corrected. "And yes, fine, I'll sleep."  
  
That done, Lucina smiled gratefully and leaned back, resting his head on a rolled-up quilt adjacent to Severa's shoulder. "Goodnight, Gerome. But, ah, one more thing."  
  
Gerome hummed, too tired to formulate a real response.  
  
"Don't think that just because the war is over, this army will disband," Lucina said, his voice stronger than he'd expected. "We may be an army, but before that, we're friends. We've gone through so much together, I don't expect our ties to simply dissolve because the threat is gone. We're a team, and as much as you think everyone else is an idiot, you're part of it, too. You're not alone, no matter how much you think you should be."  
  
Gerome went quiet, but Lucina was undeterred. Lucina had a knack for saying exactly the right thing from time to time— nobody knew how. Perhaps it was his gift of foresight, telling him what it was people needed to hear for that moment. It might've been part of the reason they'd stayed together for so long.  
  
"Anyway," he summed up, shrugging a little. "Everyone does appreciate having you as part of the team, you know. I'd appreciate it if you took that into account when deciding what you do."  
  
"I will," Gerome mumbled. "Thank you, Luce."  
  
Lucina smiled a little, humming pleasantly. He blinked a little, his fingers still in Saria's wild hair, staring at the crumbling ceiling of the fortress. The sun wasn't so bad, he guessed. He wondered what it'd look like in a time where Naga was still around to fuel its warmth— if it'd be the way he remembered.


	19. Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words cut deep, dark blood foaming from the wound like a knife had cut into the firm skin of a fruit. Rajni should've been upset, shocked by the fact that her own brother was saying these things, eyes smarting at the sting of truth in his words. She should've lashed out like she always did, shoved him and waited for him to shove her back, harder, waited for someone to step in and pull them apart like someone always had when they were children. But all her anger had boiled down to a final tar-black string keeping her together, its fibers weakening to the point it finally snapped.

Rajni stopped being Rajni when she was eighteen years old and first said she wanted to go to Ylisse.  
  
_It's a study opportunity,_ she'd said. _I'll learn what Nagism is like and report back after I learn my fill. Wouldn't father be pleased about that?_  
  
And Rohan had scoffed. _As if father would want you anywhere near that place,_ he'd said with a roll of his eyes, slouched and leaning back in the library chair, idly looking at the book he was supposed to be studying.  
  
_Well, he lets you leave the castle,_ Rajni had retorted. _Why wouldn't he let me? We all know I'm more trustworthy to do what I need to do, anyway._  
  
It was true. Rohan, though Validar allowed him to leave Plegia Castle and go into town whenever he pleased within a certain curfew, wasn't "checking on the temples" like he claimed to be. Rajni knew for a fact that once Rohan left the outer gates, he went straight to his girlfriend's house and spent the hours until curfew with her. He wasn't supposed to have a girlfriend at all, or even any friends, by the rules of the Cult— abstain from all mortal connections, that was what Validar said. But Rohan had, evidently, spat in the face of the Cult's rules and broke them whenever he liked. Rajni found it incredibly unfair that Grima hadn't punished him for lying so easily and frequently. If Rohan studied, like Rajni did, he'd know that it was a karmic sin to lie.  
  
Rohan had given her a dirty look. _Because the last time he let you run errands, you nearly blasted half the town to bits,_ he said matter-of-factly. Including Ayeshah's house! _Face it, Raj. Maybe I'm not father's favorite, but I can control Grima's power._  
  
Rajni dug her hands into her papers, crinkling the parchment. She felt Grima tugging at the back of her mind, taunting her and twisting what Rohan had said into a direct affront. It was true, she was Validar's favorite, but neither of them really knew why. It was awfully petty, but that often came up in their arguments.  
  
_Shut up, Rohan,_ she'd said instead of slashing at him with her fingernails. _You don't know anything. Just go back to consorting with your girlfriend, and I'll do all the work for father and the Cult, like always._  
  
_Ugh,_ Rohan grunted, rolling his eyes. _Why do you always do this, Rajni? I say something right and you just shut me down because you can't think of being wrong._  
  
  _Because I'm never wrong,_ Rajni scoffed.  
  
_Yeah, you are,_ Rohan shot back. _You were wrong when I said this same thing ages ago and you're still wrong now._  
  
_Shut up,_ she said again.  
  
_No, you shut up,_ he'd fired back in an instant. _You have a serious problem, Rajni. No wonder Grima chose you over me. I'd rather, you know, be a decent person and have friends and a life than become a god. What father says about obtaining ultimate power is bull. Nobody is that powerful, not even Grima._  
  
_You know if anyone in the Cult hears you talking like that, they'll cut both our tongues out,_ Rajni snapped. _So shut up! I'm not getting in trouble because you're a heretic._  
  
_Jeez, you're brainwashed,_ Rohan whistled. _Isn't that a little messed up?_  
  
_The only one messed up is you,_ Rajni countered. _You're just content to stew in your own mediocrity, aren't you? Picking up the scraps the panthers leave behind. You'll be sand under my shoes when I become Grima._  
  
Rohan rolled his eyes. _Maybe I like being mortal,_ he challenged. _Maybe I want to have a life and a family. Not like you can— you wreck everything you touch._  
  
_I could have a family,_ _you don't know that!_ Rajni snapped.  
  
_Yeah, sure,_ Rohan scoffed. _Let's pretend you end up having a family. Of course it'd be perfect, like the rest of you, at first. A husband, two kids, probably some in-laws. But what happens? Your husband dies because of something you did, one kid gets posessed and goes crazy because he has your rotten blood, and the other one is left in the dust where her family once was. You don't_ deserve _to have a family._  
  
Her hands shook. _Shut up, Rohan._  
  
_No,_ Rohan taunted, standing up and planting his hands on the table. _Gods, you're a real piece of work, aren't you? Ylisse is going to collapse under the weight of your ego._  
  
_I'll go to Ylisse and you can't stop me,_ Rajni snapped. _So shut up, Rohan! I'm going to be everything you aren't— everything._  
  
_And there you go!_ Rohan snapped right back. _That's what you do, Raj, you take— you take and absorb and become until there's nothing left for anyone else. You're bored of being Plegian and now you want to take another country's identity, too. Will you leave your name behind, as well as your country, and chew up another one?_  
  
_You don't know anything,_ Rajni growled, her voice shaking. _I can't believe I called you my brother once. You're just a traitor!_  
  
_Says the one leaving her country behind,_ Rohan said cooly. _Seems to me like you're the real traitor, Rajni._  
  
The words cut deep, dark blood foaming from the wound like a knife had cut into the firm skin of a fruit. Rajni should've been upset, shocked by the fact that her own brother was saying these things, eyes smarting at the sting of truth in his words. She should've lashed out like she always did, shoved him and waited for him to shove her back, harder, waited for someone to step in and pull them apart like someone always had when they were children. But all her anger had boiled down to a final tar-black string keeping her together, its fibers weakening to the point it finally snapped.  
  
_Call me a traitor,_ Rajni finally said, standing up. Her voice was brittle with anger, the sort of anger that came when you were done with the wailing and gnashing of teeth. It was dry and empty and crumbling, as if she'd already given up. _Call me selfish and deluded and brainwashed all you like, Rohan. But don't call me your sister._  
  
_Then don't call me your brother,_ Rohan shot back, standing up and staring her in the face. _In fact, after this, I don't expect to see you again. I'm leaving._  
  
_Have it your way,_ Rajni said icily. _I'd rather not have you in my way when I attain Grima's power._  
  
_Just remember what I say now, Rajni._ Rohan folded his arms and met her eyes, his gaze unwavering and identical to her own. _You may think you have a family someday. You may have all a mortal could ever want. But it won't be yours, because you'll always be locked inside that monster in your head, because you let Him in and let Him manipulate you into someone He could use. You'll always be alone— alone in your own head, until you turn into Him._  
  
Rajni couldn't find the words to respond. He stared at her for another second, then turned on a heel and left the castle. Rajni did not watch him go.  
  
She met Chrom not too long afterwards, as a sheltered Plegian high priestess venturing out the furthest from the castle she'd ever been, lost in the grassy fields of the foreign Ylisse. She was fairly pale for a Plegian, but it became clear once she shook hands with the prince of Ylisse that she'd stick out like a sore thumb, dark as she was. But she had to try to fit in— so he asked her name, and she said it was Robin.  
  
Robin, like the tittering little birds in the treetops in the chilly Ylissean mornings. Robin was sweet and pretty and polite, a mask Rajni donned each morning as easily as she put on her coat, the mask that the Shepherds loved and admired as if it were the real thing. But Robin was a veil hiding the ugly, monstrous truth that was Rajni, a puppet that would only ever be a puppet despite how much she longed to be real.  
  
(When Robin met Ylisse's Exalt, the Exalt saw Rajni— Rajni could only guess it was because the Exalt had veils of her own.)  
  
Chrom fell in love with Robin while Rajni fell in love with him— the bitter, painful sort of love one felt when they knew it could never be true. She loved him when he smiled at her and said he trusted her, called her the wind at his back and the sword at his side as if he were speaking to her whole self without even realizing it. He asked questions about her home and her life and what she liked to do as if he truly, truly wanted to know who Rajni was, as if he were reaching through Robin and offering a hand to pull Rajni out of Grima's thorns and into the light.  
  
He was talking to Robin, Rajni knew. But his words, his words made him shine like a beacon of hope, reaching straight through to her and tugging at her hair and her fingers as if trying to lift her out of Grima's shadows. There was some part of Rajni, a tiny part that had held on through a lifetime of the opposite, that told her _yes, he means it, he does love you, he does care_ — this was the part whose words pulsed through her like a heartbeat, a warmth that reminded her of his smile. With every time he said he loved her, he trusted her, he'd always be there, it made her feel a little bit more like the Rajni she could've been if she hadn't been born a monster. It was terrifying, and it was exhilirating.  
  
She loved Chrom for his words. His words, that touched those that heard them at their very core. His words, that shone around him like a halo. His words, that did so much and spoke to so many. His words that he did not believe.  
  
She loved him bitterly— because she did love him, but he could never love her. He loved Robin, the pretty mask that he could understand, but Robin would never be anything more than a mask. How Rajni ached for him to love her as he loved Robin! But he never would, because not even Chrom could love the monster Rajni was.  
  
_I've been lying to you, Chrom,_ she wanted to say some days. _I am not Robin, I am not the little red-breasted songbirds that sing in the mornings; I am not like the pretty creatures in Ylissean greens and blues and silvers that you expect to fall in love with; I am a child of Grima and of the harsh orange desert and white sun; of the ivory white of your bleached bone; of the deep red of the blood through mortal veins; of the violet dark magic you fear so much; I am the flesh of Plegia and the blood of the Fell Dragon; I am_ Rajni _and you cannot love me, for the Fell Dragon was never meant to be loved._  
  
But the days turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months, the months turned to years and she never did.


	20. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But wherever I look, there is Plegia. It is written in the lines on my face and on the color of my skin, through my veins like the golden desert sands and in the channels of dark magic that run inside my bones._

_Even the power of Grima cannot raise the dead._  
  
_Of course, I should know this. But not a moment goes by that I don't wish it could, if only for a moment— just a short moment. Just enough time with you that I may have some hope of telling you the truth._  
  
_And gods, you deserve the truth. I've lied to you since the moment I met you for no reason but that I was scared you'd reject me. I've lied to all of the Shepherds, to all of our family and friends, because I was scared. I am a cowardly, selfish woman, Chrom— it's a wonder how you managed to love even a part of me._  
  
_But gods, when you fell in love with that mask I wore, you loved as if you were drawing your last breath. And I know you were talking to her and not to me, but there were times, countless times, where I thought about taking it off and finally reaching out to you, telling you the truth that you deserve to hear so much. But those were the times when, an instant later, I remembered that not even you could love the monster that I am._  
  
_If I could raise the dead, I don't know if I'd manage to say anything at all. But you wouldn't want to see me— the woman you love is gone, and what's left is… I'm not sure if I count as a person anymore. I can't tell what was Robin and what is Grima and what is me, Rajni, the woman that fell in love with you while you fell for the mask she wore._  
  
_My name is Rajni— and it isn't Robin, it never was and never will be. I am Rajni, daughter of High Priest Validar of Plegia, mortal vessel of the Fell Dragon. As much as I try, I cannot deny where I come from, not this close to the end of my life. I was never meant to live in your Ylissean valleys and woodlands, much as I tried to fit in. It was lovely there, but it was never where I was supposed to be._  
  
_But wherever I look, there is Plegia. It is written in the lines on my face and on the color of my skin, through my veins like the golden desert sands and in the channels of dark magic that run inside my bones. I am a daughter of the craggy wastes and the ever-shifting ocean of sand, raised on ancient scripts and dark tomes, Marked by Grima as His mortal vessel. His blood runs through my veins as sure as my own did, once. I was never truly human after all._  
  
_I think that if I had been truly human from the beginning, you'd manage to love me because you're you and you have a way of finding something to love about everyone. And then perhaps I wouldn't have had to lie to you, I could have told you my name was Rajni and become the Plegian queen of Ylisse. But I was never human— as He tells me, I was never meant to be loved._  
  
_Even you couldn't love me, wretched creature that I am. But truly, I do love you— I love you and I love our children, though I only pray they don't share my burden. Marcus grows more and more like you each day, though he doesn't see it, and Lucina…_  
  
_I haven't seen Lucina in ages, but I can only imagine the beautiful woman she's become. She leads the force to stop Grima, you know, a force made up of the Shepherds' children. And she's been doing so for three years now— I can only imagine that her words have as much power as yours did. If you could see her, or Marcus, for that matter, I can only imagine how proud you'd be. I know I am._  
  
_I will never send this letter, because you'll never read it— you're long dead, after all. But if I were to send it, and if you were to ever have some hope of reading it, I know I'm saying what I want to say. I wonder what you'd think of it?_  
  
_I expect that I'll see you soon, Chrom— unless we are bound for different destinations, which doesn't surprise me. You were always meant to go somewhere for heroes._  
  
_But if you can, I hope you remember our times together without regret. You have every right to hate me for the monster I am, but please, please don't regret our children. They were thrown into a war they didn't ask for, have been through far too much for any child. If you are going to hate someone, hate me. I was the one who killed you._  
  
_Oh, gods, I killed you— I killed you and you told me it wasn't my fault! But Chrom, you fool of a man, you believed in me too much._  
  
_The day we came back to Ylisstol was when the world ended— I'm sure of it, since I wouldn't pick any other day for that to have begun. There's not a day that goes by I don't regret leaving Lucina alone, but… I'm certain she hates me. Lucina is blessed by Naga, like you. And here I am, a half-dead creature of Grima's twisted creation, with rotten blood that I passed on to our son._  
  
_I love you, Chrom— I know you love Robin, but she isn't real. I can only wish that I'd gotten the nerve to tell you who I really was before._  
  
_You will not read this letter._  
  
_With all my love,_  
_Rajni_


	21. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owain nudged her. "You should make a speech."
> 
> She gave him a puzzled look. "What? Why?"
> 
> He rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious, Luce. Have you ever read a novel?"

Mount Prism, the holiest spot in all of Ylisse, was just barely visible from the castle in Ylisstol. From the day she was four years old and her father pointed to the tallest peak on the eastern horizon, a distant mountain a shade of blue barely darker than the sky itself and almost hidden behind its closer bretheren, and said _look, Lucina, that's Mount Prism_ , it had been a constant landmark that she could always see from the tops of the ramparts. She could always see it from her bedroom window if she cared to look. She hadn't thought much of it— it was just a mountain.  
  
She later learned, in her studies, that Mount Prism was a sanctuary for Naga, the Divine Dragon goddess Herself. From then, occasionally she'd glance at it and remember that it was a Very Important mountain, but even so, it was still just a mountain. It just was part of the scenery, the view from her bedroom window. She must've seen it a thousand times.  
  
And now it was closer, much closer, huge and gray and incredibly real in the hazy dawn, and Lucina couldn't help but feel dread.  
  
It was the holiest spot in all of Ylisse— the sanctuary for a dead goddess. Grima and Marcus were there now, she would guess, and August had said in his letter that he and Phobos would be there by this time. There was something very final about it now, seeing the goal for all she and her friends had worked for in the past eight years, and knowing that it could very well be the place she died.  
  
She stared at the mountain, somehow very aware of every fiber of her being— of the dry grass and gravel beneath the worn soles of her boots, the loose threads inside the fingertips of her gloves, the weight of her scuffed armor on her lean frame, the faint sting on her cold-chapped cheeks and nose. She had her hand on Falchion's hilt, leather wrapping faded where her hands always gripped it, her shoulders square and her back straight and her feet pointed forwards. Her chin was directed upwards, just a little, gaze directed at the peak.  
  
For no reason she could really explain, she felt tall, far taller than the just-shy-of-six feet she'd grown to be. Perhaps it was nerves, but she felt power coursing through her veins with every beat of her heart— the blood of heroes, her father had always said. Perhaps this was what he'd meant. Perhaps now, they were lending her their strength.  
  
Lucina heard her friends packing up camp after breakfast, exchanging small talk and avoiding the subject that they'd have to fight Grima that day. She didn't blame them— it was a tough concept to stomach. They were all used to fighting for survival, not knowing if that day would be their last, but the thought of finally finding an end to it was so sweet it was almost too good to believe. Their goal hung just a little bit out of reach, but it was as if they jumped just a little bit further, or maybe took a running start, they'd finally be able to grasp what they'd been fighting for this whole time.  
  
She was jolted out of her thoughts when Owain put a hand on her shoulder. When she glanced over, she noted his locked jaw and pursed lips— he was nervous, undeniably nervous; nervous enough that even his theatrical persona couldn't cover it up.  
  
"So," he began. "This is it, isn't it?"  
  
"Mm," Lucina hummed agreement. "We could die today."  
  
Owain nodded. "Yeah, we could."  
  
There were a few seconds of silence between the two. Owain straightened his breastplate and combed his fingers back through his reddish-brown hair, taking a breath and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Lucina heard her army assembling into a loose semicircle behind her, as if awaiting instruction.  
  
Owain nudged her. "You should make a speech."  
  
She gave him a puzzled look. "What? Why?"  
  
He rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious, Luce. Have you _ever_ read a novel?"  
  
Of course she had, but that wasn't the point. She tried to say that, but Owain cut her off.  
  
"It's just, sort of," he tried to say. "The thing you do, in times like this. We are a group of rag-tag young soldiers with a common goal, and Grima is the antagonist trying to crush us. However, because we are a stubborn and scrappy bunch, and you're our leader, we've survived up until the decisive climax of the story— our final battle."  
  
"Owain, this isn't _Red Dawns of Aeon_ ," she tried to protest— though she did have to admit, it did seem like the rest of her group was waiting for her to say something, and it _did_ sort of seem like the thing to do.  
  
A little awkwardly, Lucina turned to face her friends. The sky was still dark behind them, the spot where they stood lit by a few orbs of Laurent's magical fire. She did have to admit they fit Owain's description— a ragged group of young soldiers that didn't ask to be soldiers, all so different that there was no telling what they'd be to one another if they hadn't all been through the fires of the same hell. They were the underdogs, surviving by the skin of their teeth, fueled by luck and grit and spite and a burning, brilliant hope like all the stars in the sky. They were young and battered and angry and alone, tired of fighting in a war that wasn't theirs for families that'd been ripped away too soon, waking up with _please, let it be over today_ and falling asleep with _gods, please, let it be over tomorrow._ And they followed Lucina because Lucina had promised to lead them to peace, to somewhere they could finally rest. She had taken up the leading role she was born to fill because she was not complacent with letting her world crumble around her feet because she was too afraid to do anything. She had been the one to stand up when it sunk in that they truly were alone, the anger she felt at the sheer unfairness of it all condensing into a flame of hope that had guided her for the past three years, and igniting the same fire whenever she spoke.  
  
Though she didn't fully realize it, she had learned how to speak from her father; her father, whose words inspired loyalty and passion in whoever heard them, whose words had touched the heart of one who thought herself a monster. He hadn't believed he had such a power, either.  
  
Lucina cleared her throat. There was no sense in _not_ saying a few words.  
  
"We all know what today is," she began, placing her hands on Falchion's hilt. "It is the fourteenth of November, the year 1438— a date which, I hope, becomes one to be remembered. We stand before all we have hoped for since these End Days began, at the dawn of a battle that, win or lose, will mark the end of this chapter of our lives. And they have been short lives, certainly, but they are ours, and we have done all we can with them."  
  
"I want each one of you to think for a moment," she continued. "Focus on the air on your skin, the weight of your armor, the familiar grip of your weapon, the ground beneath your boots. Feel the presence of those around you. Listen to the blood rushing in your ears, the air flowing in and out through your lungs, the beating of your heart with every second you exist. Listen to my voice as I speak to you. Listen, and know you are alive."  
  
She let that sink in for a beat, closing her eyes and then opening them once more. "We have all known pain far too great for our years. We have known what it is to lose our families, our homes, to find ourselves alone in a world that seems far too large for us to find any place we belong. We have felt sorrow and loneliness, pain and betrayal, anger at the _unfairness_ of it all— because it is unfair! Why must we be the ones to bear this weight? Why must we be the ones to fight when we did not even ask to be brought into this world at all?"  
  
Lucina took in a breath. "But you all know that, despite how unfair it is and how much we wonder why, we have no choice but to live the life we were given. Yes, it may end today— but now, my friends, we are alive. Each moment blood runs through our veins is a moment that we grow a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit stronger. I want all of you to realize this, to hold it deep within your spirit and plant it, so that it may grow as you do."  
  
"We may die today," she began again. "But right now, in this nerve-wracking storm of battle jitters, we are alive, and that is what matters. Let me move, now, from the past to the future— when this battle is over, what do you want to see or do most? Speak up, friends! Tell me what it is you dream of, what you fight for."  
  
A beat passed, and Lucina waited. Then Morgan spoke up, one of her little hands gripping her father's old knife, christened 'Determination' at Owain's suggestion to name it, and the other holding tight to Saria's for security.  
  
"I want to climb a tree," she ventured. "One of those really, really big ones! A-and I want to sit at the top and look for beetles, and watch the sky move through the leaves, and see the stars when it gets too dark."  
  
Marti was next, wearing Ke'tu's cloak over her armor to stave off the November chill. "I want a steak," she blurted. "One of those huge steaks, bigger than a barn door! I'll eat all of it in half an hour and then I'll sleep for three days straight. But it'll be worth it!"  
  
"I want to go to the first tavern I see," Inigo added. "Obtain an entire barrel of mead, and celebrate! Everyone here knows it'd be a tragedy not to, when we succeed. Don't pretend it wouldn't be." He gave Gerome a look then, and Gerome scowled in response.  
  
"I want to bathe," Gerome said bluntly, which got a unanimous noise of agreement.  
  
Each contribution spurred someone else on until the atmosphere had shifted from that of an army and commander to that of a group of friends. Additions were made, stacked on top of the original thought, until Lucina could hardly keep them straight. But damn it if she wouldn't try— she'd promised.  
  
It almost surprised her how mundane some things were, like finding wild berries or getting lost in bookshops or finding an inn and sleeping all day. And then there were simple, everyday things they'd missed, too, like clean bedsheets and stained glass windows and watering cans and teakettles and sealing wax. Charcoal and window frost and dewdrops and sugar cookies, curtains and wind chimes and fresh apples and molasses. Paper on packages and fizzy cider that warms to your core and honey dripping slow off the rim of the jar and dried herbs hanging in bunches. Ivy climbing stone walls. Salty ocean spray. The plinking sound of piano keys. The sour taste of blueberries that weren't ripe enough just yet. Satiny blankets. Tapestries. Pressed flowers. Annoying the neighbors. Feeding ducks. Sleeping. Eating. Breathing. _Life_.  
  
"And what about you, Lucina?" Morgan finally asked, taking one of Lucina's hands in her own. "You've got to have something you fight for." That was accompanied by a chorous of agreement, urging her to speak up.  
  
"Well, yes, of course I do," Lucina tried to say, a bit surprised by the turn of events. "I fight for all of you. To make sure everyone here knows peace again."  
  
Morgan narrowed her eyes. "What is it, really?" she asked, all innocence and curiousity. Lucina had to take her other hand off of Falchion and ruffle Morgan's messy hair, a smile ghosting across her features.  
  
Truth be told, Lucina had no idea how to say it. She wanted to ensure that every single one of her friends got the chance to see peace once more, the peace they deserved so much. She wanted to make it so none of them would have to fight anymore, not if they didn't want to. From there, she wasn't entirely sure— but in the same way she'd promised Saria they would always be partners, she wanted to promise her friends that she would make sure they saw what they dreamed of.  
  
"Beef stew would be nice," she admitted. That got a round of laughter, honest laughter that made Lucina's smile grow, just a bit.  
  
She cleared her throat, wrapping a firm hand around Falchion. "So what say all of you?" she announced. "Will we see one last battle?"  
  
Her friends gave a shout of agreement, the solidarity giving them all a surge of strength they needed to march on. They'd march for hope, for peace, for their future— but also for the silly material things like tree-climbing and steaks and mead and bathing and beef stew.  
  
Truly, it was the little things.


	22. Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To August, it seemed that Lucina had created an army consisting entirely of small, angry children bundled up in mismatching coats and capes. He couldn't explain why, but it seemed to fit.

It was bitterly cold at the summit, though it felt like the ice and snow were only there out of obligation for the season and altitude. It was a dry, brittle type of cold that seemed to try its best to suck the very life out of anything that ventured into its depths, made somehow worse by the lack of wind. Although the view was no doubt spectacular without the greyish haze of mist, most people with sense tended to stay below eight thousand feet.  
  
August wished he were one of them. He was used to stinging cold at high elevations, as a pegasus courier, but this was something different altogether. What sort of maniac did you have to be to live up this high?  
  
He certainly hoped that, although the summit held Naga's Shrine, She didn't spend any more time here than She needed. Dragon goddess or not, these conditions just weren't fun for anybody.  
  
At least Skeiron seemed to be enjoying himself-- though August admitted that he couldn't really tell sometimes, since he still wasn't as accustomed to the brawny griffon as he had been his pegasus. He would guess it made sense that Skeiron felt more at home up in the mountains because of how high griffons tended to nest. That made one of them.  
  
August clicked his tongue twice and tugged the reins to his right, making the griffon turn to the left in a wide circle around the mountain peak. He squinted through his glasses, dotted with moisture from the mist, at the scattered specks of red and purple and grayish-brown. None of them seemed to be able to get close to the structure at the highest point on the mountain, where Naga's Shrine stood, serene and undamaged despite everything. There was moss and ivy growing around the dirty white stones, as if in stubborn defiance of Grima's power. Naga's energy still flowed through the core of the mountain, true to the nature of Grima and Naga as opposites. So long as Grima's energy still remained, even a little, Naga's would, too.  
  
Marcus was down there somewhere, as the mobile command center for all the Risen. He and his Summoning Tome had caused August and his brother quite a lot of grief even after they'd learned of why he used it. It was a little creepy how attached Marcus was to that thing, but August, as a scholar, had to admit it was an incredible piece of magic. Being able to see the entire battle all at once was something a practiced tactician could do, but Marcus had all that information literally at his fingertips— he could administer orders and arrange formations with a single touch. If it made everything look like a game, it was no wonder Marcus was a little… ah. Off.  
  
August couldn't see Marcus exactly, through the fog and at a distance, but it was more than likely he and Grima had set up camp somewhere with some sort of shield to block out the chill, like sensible people. He and his brother had found an old outpost in the side of the mountain, a few yards from the summit, and it wasn't a bad place to camp out, but August wouldn't want to spend all his time there. If you asked him, the sooner they got off this gods-damned mountain, the better.  
  
Skeiron let out a squawk that August could feel in his fingertips, tossing his head to the left. August squinted through the fog, nudging the griffon in that direction. Soon enough, he caught a glimpse of a red flag made of an old cape tied to a staff, a huge butterfly painted across its faded crimson surface. It was moving, flapping around itself, but not because of any mountain wind— because there wasn't any. We've been over that.  
  
August nudged Skeiron closer, catching a better look at the approaching army. There were about fifteen soldiers, barely enough for a platoon, but a decent-sized unit itself. August did not count the dragon (a rather silly-looking dragon, he thought at first, though later realized the silly-looking bits were magical heating packs) and pegasus as soldiers. They were a bedraggled bunch, though August didn't blame them, and their leader appeared to be a blue-haired youngster in a mask.  
  
It could only be Lucina's army. He ducked back into the fog before their sniper could catch a glimpse of them (because friendly fire sucked) and landed again on the other side of the peak, in front of the door to the outpost.  
  
He cleared his throat to announce himself, pulling off his thick gloves. Though that was a little bit of a moot point, since only one other person was in the outpost, and that was the same person that had highly sensitive ears, in a display of incredible irony.  
  
"Lucina's army has reached the summit," he relayed, though his hands formed the words instead of his lips. "There's about fifteen or sixteen. Plus the mounts."  
  
August's brother, a bulky War Monk sharpening an axe by the fireplace, nodded in acknowledgement, lifting a hand to reply. "You think everything will fit in here?"  
  
"Skeiron does," August shrugged, as the enormous griffon settled down in his designated corner. Skeiron was less reminiscent of a horse or lion in terms of size and more akin to a moose— absolutely the biggest griffon August had ever seen, with a wingspan to match. "I'm sure everyone will fit, mounts included."  
  
"Hope you don't mind getting cuddly, Aggie," Phobos cracked, affectionately punching August in the shoulder, though since Phobos was made of far thicker stuff than his elder brother, it sort of hurt.  
  
"Don't call me that," August grumbled, but he paid that little mind besides. "I hope they know to come here, and not take on Grima directly."  
  
"Seems to me anyone sane would," Phobos shrugged, setting his axe aside and clumping over to the foggy window set into the thick log wall. "I mean, come on. Those kids just marched up a mountain, I'm sure they'd at least note the seemingly-inviting outpost just off their path."  
  
He was right, and August had to admit it. August folded his arms, cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief. As if on cue, Skeiron's ears perked up to the sounds of an army of teenagers coming up to a stop outside the door. August glanced over and saw three peering in through the windows— two younger girls and a boy. The youngest girl was the one holding the flag, though it looked too big for her little body, swallowed by a blue fur-lined coat far too large for her. How old was she, eleven? August felt a sudden pang of protectiveness for no reason at all.  
  
They must've knocked, because Phobos stood up and got the door. Per force of habit, his hand signed as his mouth spoke, allowing August to understand.  
  
"You must be Lucina, then," he was saying. "That's great! Marcus told us about you."  
  
"Us?" Lucina frowned, shifting her mask so it rested on her forehead. "Oh, you mean—"  
  
"Me and August, yep," Phobos confirmed. "Nice army you've got— get them inside, you'll freeze your little fingers off out there. Mountain chill is brutal."  
  
He stepped aside. Fifteen teenagers and a giant rabbit flooded in, immediately swarming away from the door and towards the fire at the back of the outpost. All of them were younger than August, and except for one, they all seemed to be younger than Phobos, too. To August, it seemed that Lucina had created an army consisting entirely of small, angry children bundled up in mismatching coats and capes. He couldn't explain why, but it seemed to fit.  
  
Lucina seemed to be saying something. "I saw the Risen at the summit. Does that mean Grima and Marcus have gotten here already?"  
  
"They were here when we got here," Phobos explained. "And we've been here about a week. We travel fast, with August's griffon."  
  
Lucina glanced over to Skeiron, who grunted, lifting a huge wing to preen his feathers. She seemed surprised, as if she were about to ask if they were sure that was a griffon and not a winged moose, since it looked like it could eat their pegasus in one bite— but she didn't ask that, likely because Lucina seemed to have more social tact than August's younger brother.  
  
"You're August, then?" Lucina asked, turning her gaze to August, leaning against the cabin wall. She was fairly tall, August noted, and if it weren't for her face or voice, August would've assumed she was a boy, with her hair tucked into the thick red muffler around her neck. "You were the one who wrote the letter?"  
  
Of course, he didn't know she'd said this until Phobos translated, at which point he nodded, and signed back.  
  
"He says it's good to meet you," Phobos relayed. "So should we get down to business?"  
  
"Business, yes," Lucina nodded. "Let me get my strategy team assembled."  
  
The transition was quick. Within minutes, August found himself sitting in a circle around a top-down sketch of Mount Prism's summit with his brother, Lucina, four of her soldiers, and the little girl that'd been holding the flag.  
  
"So you're team players, then," Phobos gathered, breaking what seemed to be a silence. "Alright, cool. I was kind of expecting just one tactician, but, y'know, whatever works."  
  
"We don't have a single tactician," Lucina explained. "But with our combined knowledge, it works reasonably well. Laurent heads the logistics of the operations, Gerome takes charge with scouting and leads the aerial units, and Kjelle leads the ground-based units." She pointed to each of them in turn— the tall, dark-haired mage with cracked spectacles perched on his nose, the freckly, scowling wyvern rider dressed head to toe in black, and the tanned, burly girl knight in armor that looked just a touch too big. That left the last two unaccounted for, but August figured she would get to them.  
  
"And you keep them all in line, huh?" Phobos asked. It seemed like small talk, but Phobos had a way of eeking out information in the most casual of ways. August still didn't know how he did it.  
  
"I try to," Lucina said modestly. She didn't sound like a commander who had taken charge with confidence and awareness— more like a commander who had been appointed commander because no one else wanted to step up to the figurative mound.  
  
Phobos hummed acknowledgement. "And what about you?" he asked the fourth soldier, a short, pale-eyed Plegian girl with Grimleal face paint and hands far toosoft to be that of a combat unit's. A medic, perhaps.  
  
"My partner, Saria," Lucina introduced her. "She knows dark magic well. I thought her insight might help us fight Grima."  
  
"Partner, yes," Saria agreed, giving a little smirk. "Or fiancée. Whichever floats your boat." Lucina turned a very vibrant shade of red in response to that— clearly the engagement was still very new.  
  
"A-and my apprentice, Morgan," Lucina continued, setting her hand on the shoulder of the tiny girl with the well-worn dagger on her lap. "She wanted to see how strategy meetings go."  
  
Morgan straightened proudly at being called Lucina's apprentice. August hoped they weren't seriously going to have a literal child fighting in the battle with Grima— though he agreed they'd need all the help they could get, he didn't like the idea.  
  
"So, Aggie did a bit of scouting," Phobos cleared his throat and pointed to a spot on the map with the tip of his forefinger. "It looks like Grima and Marcus have set up about here."  
  
Laurent took out his quill and marked it. "And… the Risen?"  
  
"Random, as far as I can tell," August signed to Phobos, who translated into words for the rest of the group.  
  
Gerome grunted agreement. "Either Marcus isn't bothering to gather the Risen in formation, or he's testing us."  
  
"We are not going through that again," Laurent said sharply. August wondered why he'd said again. Had they had an argument about patterns before? (He got the impression that he was better off not asking.)  
  
"Who cares if they're a pattern or not," Kjelle sighed. "Where are the units?"  
  
"There's about twenty-five, and they tend to stay in one place, which is good," Phobos frowned. "About… Aggie?"  
  
August pointed to five different general areas, scattered around the summit and Naga's Shrine. Laurent marked them down with solid circles. Marcus got an empty circle with an X through it, and Grima got the largest solid circle with a ring around it. August gave Phobos a dirty look for the use of the nickname, which went ignored.  
  
"There are very few leylines for Grima's energy out here," Saria commented. "They're probably fairly weak, but Marcus could summon them in waves to make up for that."  
  
"So we ought to take Marcus out of the picture first," Lucina mused, looking down at the map. "We're not killing him, but we do need to send in a fast unit and someone who can take damage without necessarily dealing it, especially with Grima and those few Risen in such close proximity."  
  
Gerome hummed. "Owain and Cynthia, maybe," he guessed.  
  
"Wait, who are we putting with Morgan?" Saria brought up. "We can't leave her unpaired."  
  
"I thought Brady, this time," Laurent mused, jotting it down. "Since we had Noire with Inigo."  
  
"We'll put Morgan with Brady, then," Lucina agreed. "And Owain and Cynthia at the south end of the map, to take care of Marcus?"  
  
"August has a good range, and we're both healers," Phobos brought up. "So you could put us… here, in the center of the map."  
  
"Surrounded by Risen?" Lucina questioned. "That doesn't bode well."  
  
Phobos scoffed, tossing a lock of blond hair out of his face. "Please. Aggie and I have dealt with these undead losers for ages. We can handle it."  
  
"If you say so," Laurent mumbled. "There are… six Risen in your attack range. I don't know how many are archers."  
  
"Two," Gerome filled in. "But weakly armed, if past battles are anything to go by."  
  
"We should keep you and Cynthia out of their range, then," Lucina brought up. "Just to be safe. With luck, their attention will go to August… unless Marcus is paying attention this time, instead of leaving the decision-making to his Risen."  
  
"If Owain and Cynthia take him out soon, then he will be," Saria added. "And then they can get back out of Grima's range using Cynthia's added speed."  
  
"And then the rest of the Risen will be weaker, right?" Morgan ventured. "Will I get to fight them, Lucina?"  
  
"You should stay behind Brady and watch," Lucina answered, scanning the map. "What are we doing with Nah and Marti, equipment-wise, since neither of them can transform in these conditions?"  
  
"Marti is on healing detail," Kjelle reported. "And Nah is infantry. But neither of them are leading in the pairs, are they?"  
  
"No, let's keep Ke'tu and Yarne in front," Lucina agreed. "And we'll put them…"  
  
"Here," Laurent guessed, circling the area towards the northern end of the map with his finger. "Which leaves this position east of that open for myself and Gerome."  
  
Lucina nodded approval. "Let's have Kjelle and Severa bring up the rear," she suggested, as Laurent jotted names down next to the concrete positions. "And… Inigo and Noire can be in the woods there, if Brady and Morgan are sticking close to me."  
  
"Ke'tu and Marti should be further north," Gerome suggested. "Since the rest of the healers are scattered towards the south, we should have one near myself and Laurent."  
  
"Laurent and me," Laurent corrected absently, filling in the correct names.  
 "What?" Gerome frowned.  
  
"Grammatically, it'd be 'Laurent and me,'" Laurent repeated. "It's fairly simple, actually. Just remove the additional subject to see what conjugation of 'I' you would use."  
  
"That doesn't make any—" Gerome started to protest, but then he sighed. "Fine. Laurent and me. Satisfied?"  
  
"Very," Laurent hummed, finally pulling his quill back from the map. "Lucina, is that sufficient?"  
  
Lucina appraised the map. "It should be," she decided, nodding firmly. "Standard attack patterns, then, assuming we're dealing with weaker Risen, except for Owain and Cynthia. Once we take care of Marcus and the rest of the Risen, the rest of you should be able to swarm Grima and distract Him so I can get to Naga's Shrine."  
  
"And from there, you do… the thing, right?" Morgan raised her little hand. "But we're missing some things for that, Lucina. You said we needed the thingy-Emblem and the five stones, but…"  
  
"Marcus said to try anyway, so I'm going to try," Lucina shrugged, and August had to admire her tenacity.  
  
"Hold on, now," Phobos said with a grin, holding out his hands. "The 'thingy-Emblem,' you say? You don't have it?"  
  
"Marcus had it," Morgan mumbled. "But… it broke. I didn't mean to, but it sort of… happened? I guess it wasn't the real one, since the real one isn't supposed to break, but we dunno where the real one is, so…"  
  
"Don't you?" Phobos was grinning wider by the second. "Hey, August."  
  
It clicked. "Of course, we were brought together for a reason," he explained, allowing Phobos a moment to translate. "It wasn't just for the added support. Marcus has a plan."  
  
"And you're part of it?" Lucina gathered, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"  
  
"My shield," August explained. "Though… I suppose it's your shield, now, Exalt Lucina."  
  
Lucina frowned as August stood, pulling a canvas-wrapped parcel the size of a decent-sized shield out of Skeiron's saddlebags. Evidently, she hadn't shared the contents of the letter with anyone else, because she was the only one who looked like she had any idea what was going on.  
  
He handed the parcel to Lucina, who stared at it for a solid four seconds before slowly beginning to unwrap it, the rest of her group crowding around to see. When she finally pulled the fabric away, she went pale, staring back at August in disbelief.  
  
"This is…" she managed. "You had this all along." The way she phrased it made it sound like she was confirming what she already knew. "You were… Captain Phila…"  
  
"She made a fake!" Phobos blurted. "Genius, right?"  
  
"I saw it," Lucina marveled, touching the shield's surface with the tips of her fingers. "Naga sent me a dream, before we left for Mount Prism. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but… She wanted me to see what really happened, I know that much."  
  
"We're missing the Gemstones, but," Phobos shrugged, still grinning like an idiot. "I figured this might help, if you're planning on performing the Awakening."  
  
Laurent jolted as if someone had stuck him with a pin. "Wait. Lucina. That is what we're doing, correct?"  
  
"I should hope so," Lucina frowned. "Since I've only said it fifteen dozen times. What's wrong?"  
  
"Naga," Laurent sighed. "That's what's wrong. We don't have a Naga."  
  
Well, duh. It felt as if everyone, collectively, had just then realized that tiny hiccup in the otherwise-decent plan. Naturally, the entire group looked to Lucina, who stammered, trying to come up with an answer to that.  
  
"W-well, we," she managed. "We… don't have a Naga, true. B-but! But… we do have a direct descendant."  
  
"You do?" Phobos arched an eyebrow. "Where?"  
  
Lucina turned her head and glanced over to Marti, who was gnawing on an old dagger with her tough Manakete jaws and taking stock of healing concoctions with Brady, mask pulled down around her neck. Her brother, as always, was lingering not too far away, keeping a close eye out for anything amiss.  
  
Marti paused, and blinked, her slit-pupiled eyes flitting back to Lucina and the rest of the strategy group.  
  
"What?" she demanded around a mouthful of dented iron. "No one was going to use this knife anyway!"  
  
"That's not it," Lucina explained. "Could you come here, Marti?"  
  
Marti stood, plopping ungracefully down next to Lucina. "What's wrong, milord?"  
  
 Lucina pursed her lips. It undoubtedly felt incredibly strange to be asking this of Marti— Marti, a little Manakete that was undoubtedly incredibly powerful despite not looking a day over nine years old, gnawing away on metal like it was a drumstick.  
  
"We need you to stand in for Naga so I can perform the Awakening," Lucina blurted. "Can you do that?"  
  
Marti blinked. "Wait. Wait, what?"  
  
"I know it sounds crazy," Lucina pleaded. "But… we don't have any other options, unless we have a séance, and I don't think anyone's up for that."  
  
"I can't do that!" Marti protested. "I'm not nearly that powerful! Something will go wrong. I don't want to risk that— or your life."  
  
"What choice do we have?" Lucina retorted. "We have to try. If it doesn't work, well, there wouldn't have been any point in going to the past anyway. This is… one of those things you'll just have to trust me on."  
  
Marti hesitated, glancing back to her brother. Ke'tu stared back at her wordlessly, looking from beneath a curtain of dark green hair, as per usual. They seemed to have a full conversation in the solid two seconds that passed— August dismissed it as one of the many things he would just have to accept as a thing.  
  
"I'll do it," Marti sighed. "But even if we do have the Fire Emblem now, I guess, we don't have the Gemstones."  
  
"Marcus said he'd take care of that," Morgan ventured. "So… we can try anyway. Right, Lucina?"  
  
"Right," Lucina agreed, patting Morgan's shoulder and making the younger girl beam proudly. "And when this is all over, we'll celebrate."  
  
"Will there be steaks, milord?" Marti perked up right away.  
  
"The biggest," Lucina nodded. "You won't be disappointed."  
  
Marti grinned at the promise of steaks— huge steaks, she was no doubt picturing, so big you'd pass out if you tried to eat them all in one sitting. August couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia at that. Uncle Pibs had always made the best steaks.


	23. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You miss your mom, Saria?" Morgan asked, looking up.
> 
> "All the time," Saria nodded. "And I wonder if she knows what I've done while she's gone. If she can see me."

Saria had decided she didn't much like the mountains.  
  
Not because she wasn't the biggest fan of heights, though that certainly was a contributing factor, and not just because she was used to much lower altitudes, either. Saria suspected that the main reason was because the cold meant everything had a faint haze of gray around it, a sharp kind of gray that made breathing feel like ice. And she couldn't touch anything, either, since she had to wear gloves, so she had to use her cane and Saria _hated_ using her cane.  
  
"I always feel like a geriatric," she complained (her voice still sounded violet), jerking her head in what she's sure is a withering gesture towards the cane. "It's why I hate rocky ground, too. If you ask me, people were meant to stay on flat land."  
  
"Ironic, since Dahiri has more levels than there are stars in the sky," Lucina noted, with a little bit of snark. That brought a bit of acidic pink into her otherwise-cobalt words— she'd clearly spent a good bit of time around Severa lately. She wasn't technically wrong, with all of Dahiri's hills and steps, but as someone who had been born and raised in that crazy maze of a city, Saria was very mildly affronted.  
  
"I _know_ Dahiri," Saria protested. "I don't know this place."  
  
"You could always hold my hand instead," Lucina remarked, and Saria could _hear_ the amused little smile in her navy-colored words. "I'd be alright with that, if you are. I'm still willing to carry you over the mountain terrain, if you're not too proud to admit you need help out here."  
  
Saria pouted. "Don't look so cheeky," she demanded, and the smirk dropped off Lucina's face in surprise— because she did, in fact, look cheeky. "It isn't a sin to have dignity. The day I let someone else decide what I can and cannot walk over is the day I can't walk anymore."  
  
Lucina chuckled, and whatever annoyance Saria felt melted like ice in the Plegian sun. Royal blue was becoming Saria's favorite shade— especially the blue that flowered like mushrooms after a rain that came when Lucina laughed. "I think it'd be a sin to suggest otherwise. But then, I always fell asleep during religious studies."  
  
Saria leaned her head on Lucina's shoulder, her hands on the thick windowsill of the little outpost. It wasn't terribly small, with all the furniture chopped up for firewood, but it was small enough that everyone was just a little bit squished. As a result, much of Lucina's army had formed a pile of quilts around the fireplace. No matter how it was they fell asleep, all fourteen of them would somehow wind up in a warm tangle of limbs that seemed completely impossible to comfortably pull off.  
  
She breathed in the warm, still air of the cabin. "'And as they observed what they thought would be their deaths, they felt a strange sense of peace; for in the moment it seemed all was right with the world.' Kodia sixty-seven."  
  
"You've never quoted Kodia before," Lucina remarked, lacing their fingers together. "It's always Behrasa or Agapo or Pathan."  
  
"I don't usually agree with Kodia," Saria replied. "He's too fixated on introspection as opposed to action. Being able to know what's going on inside your own head is good, I _guess_ , and there's nothing wrong with Kodia, but the whole _point_ of Grimleal is movement. You're not moving very much if you're sitting and _thinking_ about what makes you move. That's dull."  
  
"'All was right with the world,'" Lucina repeated. Her murmur colored the words a darker blue, a faint blush in the darkness like the vibrations Saria felt through her bones. "Huh. I can agree with that, for this moment."  
  
"That's why I said it," Saria nodded. "Kodia had a couple of good verses."  
  
"Like what?" Lucina asked. "There was… that one about the butterfly?"  
  
"'It was but a thought that moved the hands,'" Saria quoted. "'And like the insect's wings that caused the hurricane, it was the hands that changed the world.' Kodia twenty-four. Funny, that reminds me of you."  
  
There was a distinct lack of verbalized blue that Saria noticed, as Lucina hadn't spoken. Of course Lucina's presence itself was blue all around Saria's perception, but since it didn't change, it faded to constancy while Saria waited for a response. There was a different shade of blue, a grayer one that made Saria's fingertips chill when she reached out to touch it, coming off the thick glass of the cabin window. She felt a deep reddish-orange of the fireplace at her back, the crackling reminding her that it was still there. When she set her hand down, she felt a rough shade of a warmer gray on the stone walls. Oddly, if Saria's hand found her cheek when she tucked her hair behind her ear, she felt no color. It was odd, not feeling any color in particular. She supposed she was just Saria-colored, as dumb as that sounded.  
  
"It _is_ about a butterfly, isn't it?" Lucina finally said. "Because that's where the concept about the butterfly effect comes in."  
  
"I guess," Saria shrugged. "I don't know where the phrase came from. Maybe Kodia mentions a butterfly somewhere else. I know Azaran did."  
  
Lucina hummed acknowledgement, in the way she always did when Saria lost her— which happened quite a lot when Saria got to talking about Grimleal. She found the very concept of it absolutely fascinating, so naturally she'd share it with Lucina, who tried her hardest to listen honestly and learn something, but Lucina had never really been one for studying or planning, and often got lost halfway through. Still, she tried.  
  
Saria nudged her. "Hey, don't worry too much about the battle tomorrow. Our strategy is rock-solid. We'll be fine."  
  
"Sometimes I think you have too much faith in me," Lucina chuckled, leaning down and kissing her head. "What happens when I don't live up to your expectations?"  
 "Then clearly I'll have to rethink my life once you've broken the pedestal I've put you on, as is natural in any healthy relationship," Saria teased. "But in all seriousness, I think I have just the right amount, thank you."  
  
"I'll fail one day," Lucina sighed. "I don't want to let you down, Saria. I know you see the best in me."  
  
"I see _all_ of you," Saria replied. She technically didn't see any of Lucina but that wasn't the point. "And I know you're capable of so much more than you think. I just know it. Call it a woman's intuition."  
  
Lucina chuckled. "You just know, hmm?"  
  
"Sort of like your Foresight," Saria explained. "I have a feeling. You don't even know how great you'll be, Lucina. I knew when I first met you that you'd do something extraordinary. I mean, back then I couldn't have guessed it was time travel, but I digress."  
  
"Back then?" Lucina repeated. "You say it like it was a long time ago. It was only…"  
  
"Six years," Saria filled in. "That's a pretty long time, living day to day. And twenty is pretty old, if you don't expect to make it to twenty-one."  
  
Lucina took a moment to let that sink in. "Are we sure it wasn't seven years?"  
  
"No, Lucina, it was six," Saria insisted. "It was '32. And… it's November, right? That's six years and two months, exactly. How are you getting seven?"  
  
"It feels like seven," Lucina insisted. "Because it was around that time I was starting to question the importance of gender as a concept, but put off telling anyone because I didn't think it was important. And I was thirteen when that started, which would be seven years ago."  
  
"I still can't believe you managed to procrastinate that," Saria shook her head in wonder. "If there was ever any doubt about your skill at putting things off, it's gone now. There it goes, out the window. Hopefully it doesn't freeze to death on this gods-forsaken rock."  
  
"It isn't that bad," Lucina tried to protest, but Saria raised an eyebrow in a nonverbal dare to argue with her about how much everyone absolutely hated being on a frozen mountain. It just wasn't a fun time for anybody.  
  
"I just want to be done with this," Saria sighed. "Back in the past, or whenever. Lucina, promise me that when this is all over with, we'll find an inn and staying in all day. Not even doing anything, just enjoying the fact that we've got actual mattresses and nobody is expecting us to lead an army."  
  
"I can endorse this," Lucina decided, kissing her cheek. "When we're married, we can do that all we want— within reason."  
  
Saria had to smile. The idea that they were _engaged_ still made Saria's stomach flutter with something in a soft but excited shade of pink. It was partners in a whole different sense— in what way it was different than what they had now, Saria wasn't sure, but she was pretty certain it was mostly just the name thing. Somehow, being engaged made her feel older. She'd never really thought she'd make it this far, that was for sure. Clearly, things did change.  
  
"Do you think your parents will flip a lid once they find out you're engaged to a Plegian princess?" Saria smirked.  
  
Lucina winced. "Oh, gods, my parents. I didn't think about that."  
  
"Your aunt seemed okay with it, back in the day," Saria brought up. "From the day I joined you. Though maybe that's just because of who she was as a person."  
  
"I feel like I should apologize for how cold everyone else was to you," Lucina admitted. "Including myself."  
  
"Now, was this before your silly teenage crush?" Saria teased. "I still can't believe I didn't notice that. It was the most obvious thing ever." What she didn't mention was Severa's also-incredibly-obvious thing for Lucina at the time, and the eventual all-girls love square of awkwardness and burgeoning sexualities that happened, of which Lucina still had no knowledge. (Saria and Severa had mutually agreed it was better that way and everyone had moved on.)  
  
"That might've been part of it," Lucina admitted. "Inexperience with those sorts of things. And yet, here we are."  
  
"Here we are," Saria agreed, squeezing Lucina's hand. "From traveling through the desert to this gods-damned mountain."  
  
"I'm glad you joined, Saria," Lucina murmured, pressing a kiss to her head. "I'm glad we've been able to fight through this together."  
  
"Together," Saria hummed, a smile curling across her face. "I like that."  
  
"Though, you know," Lucina added. "I don't think our parents' approval matters, as long as you're still alright with it."  
  
 "Are you suggesting we elope?" Saria teased.  
  
 "As a plan B," Lucina admitted. "We're adults, Saria, I think we can make our own decisions as to who we choose to marry."  
  
Saria nodded. "It's hard to believe you, of all people, are telling me this, with how much you admire your father. And yet you're willing to go against his approval for this sort of thing."  
  
"Well, technically, I am older than him in that time," Lucina admitted. "I think I'd take most of what he says as a suggestion."  
  
Saria chuckled. "I don't think I can say the same for mine. Though I've never met him, so I don't know how he'd react for sure. It's not like mother ever talked much about him, aside from telling me he made some asinine decisions regarding yours."  
  
"If he's anything like you, I think he'll approve just because you're _not_ doing what's conventional," Lucina replied, which made Saria giggle a little. "But does it really matter who our parents are? You are yourself, Saria, before you're anyone's daughter."  
  
That was a nice thing to say. Saria hummed, leaning on Lucina's shoulder and idly tracing her finger through the fog on the windowpane.  
  
But Saria couldn't stay like that forever. She let out a breathy little chuckle and squeezed Lucina's hand, kissing her jaw. She could've said 'I love you' then, but after awhile, there was no use saying it because it was embedded into everything she did.  
  
She felt a small weight leaning against her, a rusty orange that reminded her of evening sunlight and the texture of flowerpots. Her immediate response was to set her free arm around the newcomer's tiny shoulders, rubbing her back as if she'd done it for years.  
  
"What's wrong, Morgan?" Lucina asked, leaving Saria's side to crouch next to the younger girl.  
  
"Nothing," Morgan mumbled in her small voice, the voice that said something _was_ wrong and Morgan was clamming up about what it was.  
  
"Bad dream?" Saria guessed, running a hand through Morgan's messy hair.  
  
"A little," Morgan admitted. "And Cynthia stole my blanket."  
  
"I'll find you another one," Lucina promised. "Is that alright?"  
  
"Mm-hmm," Saria felt Morgan nod. She could hear a little smile in the girl's terra cotta voice. "Thanks, Lucina."  
  
"Of course," Lucina said, patting Morgan's shoulder and padding back to their stack of supplies to see if she couldn't dig out one more blanket.  
  
Saria led Morgan back over to the edge of the camp, sitting with her on a quilt that'd been set over the log floor. "Are you still tired, Morgan?"  
  
"Kinda," Morgan mumbled. "It wasn't a bad-bad dream, with any monsters or anything. It just wasn't very good. It was confusing. I thought I saw my dad, but he went away."  
  
Saria nodded, her arm still around Morgan. "Was that all?"  
  
"What I can remember," Morgan nodded. "Hey, Saria?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
Saria could hear her frowning now. "We're kind of a family, right? You and me, and Lucina, and Noire and Cynthia and Owain and the rest of 'em?"  
  
"In a way, sure," Saria nodded. "We've all been through a lot together for a long time, so we're closer than you'd expect from a normal army. I'd say it's a family, in its own right."  
  
"Well, then," Morgan ventured. "When we go back to the past… we'll stay that way, right?"  
  
"I can't think why we wouldn't," Saria assured her. "Is that what you were worried about?"  
  
"Well…" Morgan trailed off, resting her head on Saria's chest, just above the neckline of the shirt Saria had stolen from Lucina. "You won't leave me, right? I just wanna make sure, 'cause… 'cause Lucina says we won't have to fight once we're in the past and set things right, which is good, but we won't be an army anymore, so we won't have any reason to stick together. A-and I don't want to be alone, 'cause I'm only eleven and I can't cook or use a sword or do grownup stuff like that. So… so you'll stay with me until I can, right?"  
  
Saria felt her heart break into a thousand tiny pieces. She pulled Morgan into a hug, combing her fingers through her hair and wanting to say a thousand different things that all got jammed up trying to get out.  
  
"Of course we will," she promised. "We're a family, Morgan."  
  
"Is it bad that I miss my parents, when I have you and Lucina?" Morgan mumbled, her voice shaking. "A-and my sister, and my old village and our shop, and… and the way things were before bad things started happening. It feels dumb to miss it when I have a new home and new family now."  
  
"It isn't dumb," Saria murmured, kissing her head gently. "I miss my old home and family, too. Even though I love Lucina and our friends, I still miss how it used to be."  
  
"You miss your mom, Saria?" Morgan asked, looking up.  
  
"All the time," Saria nodded. "And I wonder if she knows what I've done while she's gone. If she can see me."  
  
Morgan nodded thoughtfully, her head resting on Saria's chest as Saria rubbed her back. "Hey, Saria?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Thanks for telling me that. And for… everything, really."  
  
 Saria blinked, but decided not to question it. Morgan, despite everything, was still a child— she probably wouldn't appreciate having that called into question, nor would she understand it. So instead Saria kissed her forehead again, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Don't worry about it."  
  
Morgan went quiet as Lucina sat down next to them, wrapping a blanket around Morgan's little shoulders. She felt so small, a little burnt orange form in Saria's arms, and Saria wasn't sure how to process it. With each passing day, it got harder to remember that Morgan wasn't really hers. Saria wasn't sure she liked thinking about what might happen when they had to go their separate ways, since Morgan wouldn't be eleven years old forever, as sure as Saria wouldn't be twenty and Lucina's brother wouldn't be sixteen.  
  
All that was true, there was no denying it, but at that moment, Saria didn't particularly care. She felt the orange and the blue amidst darkness— and all felt right with the world, as if the battle to determine their fates wasn't going to be the very next day and as if, maybe, she could be twenty (almost) forever.  
  
Saria decided to remember the moment. There was no telling when she'd be able to recall it again.


	24. Resolute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, no, you really don't," Marcus insisted. "Listen. You know mom's ring, that she gave to you when we were kids?"
> 
> "What about it?" Lucina prompted, her grip around Falchion's hilt tightening anxiously. He couldn't mean what she thought he meant. If there were ever a time Lucina prayed she were wrong, this would be it.

As far as going off-plan went, this wasn't the worst it'd ever gotten.  
  
Really, Lucina hadn't _exactly_ expected to kill her own mother so anticlimactically— whatever was was left of her mother, anyway, after years and years of the un-Grima so graciously making an absolute wreck of His own moral vessel. Whatever the creature that was left was, Lucina had put an end to it with a sword through its chest. _Very humane,_ she recalled one of her old swordsmanship teachers saying, not long before he was crushed under a collapsed wall with four others. _Lucina, if you ever need to kill someone, make it quick like that. Then they won't fight back and you won't've tortured them._  
  
One would think that Lucina would feel something upon stabbing her mother in the chest, but oddly enough, there was a distinct lack of anything aside from shock, and even then, it wasn't shock at what she'd just done.  
  
Robin had gone down too easily. Surely, Lucina thought, there should've been a fight. Surely, she should've resisted. Even the Fell Dragon had self-preservation instincts when it came to His mortal vessel. Considering that was His weak spot, it only made sense that He would've bothered to keep it alive a little bit longer.  
  
Lucina sheathed her sword, unable to tear her eyes away from Robin's crumpled form on the hard ground. Her heavy breaths steamed in the mountain air, her fingers numb even in her thick leather gloves. As awful as fighting in the heat was, fighting in the cold wasn't much better. Lucina was cold under her armor, chiefly because she'd given her coat and hood to Morgan, who would be grossly underprepared for the mountain weather any other way. And at the same time, her forehead was beaded with sweat that stung in the cold air, making her skin feel clammy and unpleasant. The air was still— too still— and Lucina could hear every sound in perfect clarity, as if the entire battle had been put on hold.  
  
She licked her chapped lips, glancing around the battlefield. The summit was littered with half-dissolved remains of Risen, tarnished axes and battered pieces of armor sticking out of piles of Risen goo with barely-discernable limbs and faces contorted into grotesque positions. Any activity that had been going on had halted when Lucina shoved Falchion's blade into Robin's ribs, a clean stab through the heart that exited the back with a burst of blood too dark and purplish to be human, that now clung to her blade in beads like quicksilver.  
  
There was Brady and Marti at the rear of the battlefield, paused in the middle of wrapping up Owain's arm wound and carrying over a crate of concoctions, respectively. Kjelle crouched on one knee at the base of Naga's Shrine with an arm supporting Severa, immobilized for the time being with an arrow wound in her shin. Inigo leaned on his sword clutching a wound over his eye from when a blade grazed him, next to Cynthia, who had very nearly passed out from the lack of oxygen at the high altitude and was still slightly green. Laurent, his glasses broken when a spell smashed him square in the face, had dragged a battered Gerome over to Minerva, who had curled a wing over the both of them protectively and shifted Noire with an unfortunate broken arm on her back. Ke'tu had an exhausted Morgan bundled in Lucina's coat on his back, lingering by Marti as Saria crouched by a broken pillar with a gash in her stomach. Marcus, knocked unconscious by one of Laurent's spells, had crumpled with the pages of his Summoning tome clutched tightly in his scrawny hand.  
  
Lucina's knees shook, but her steps were steady as she walked over to Robin's corpse, her brow furrowed, and crouched as if she were going to inspect something.  
  
The cracks in her mother's face had gone, Lucina noticed, replaced with faint webbing just a shade lighter than her grayish skin. As if the eyes that had been opened in her mother's skin had closed and seeped out of her skin the same way the Risen remains seeped into the ground. She looked like hell, to be frank, but Lucina was sure everyone did. Lucina considered it a miracle they were all still breathing— though it wasn't like she was going to _say_ that.  
  
"Why didn't you fight back?" Lucina found herself mumbling. By all accounts, it didn't make any sense. A more sensible leader would've gathered her team and ran to perform the Awakening right then and there, Gemstones be damned, but Lucina was not that leader. She tended to go off of visceral instinct, and right then, Lucina's gut was telling her that something wasn't right.  
  
She felt the back of her brain buzz like the instant before she saw something, and her head jerked up— _There was a cold laughter and although it couldn't be coming from her brother, it was; she felt something like a blade run down her spine as fast as a shiver; it wouldn't have mattered if she got to perform the Awakening; oh gods and it was because she'd failed; she'd failed and it was her fault; she'd failed and Marcus was a monster and she wasn't any better_ —  
  
"Get back!" she suddenly shouted, whirling around and drawing Falchion in the same movement. She stared at Marcus, her eyes noticing the shudder in his shoulders as he slowly, so agonizingly slowly, hauled himself up until he was hunched over, elbows on the ground and head dangling.  
  
Marcus coughed. A wave of paralyzingly strong panic ran through the camp. He coughed again, pulling an arm up to rub his aching forehead, and pushed himself to a sitting position. His hand was still clutching the tome, though it was the least of Lucina's worries— she stared at his form with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to turn his head well enough for her to see his face beyond the matted cobalt locks dangling to his chin.  
  
"Ow, jeez," Marcus finally managed. His voice, which sent chills down Lucina's spine, sounded as if three of him were speaking through the same throat. "No mercy for me, huh? Should've expected that from you, Luce."  
  
"Creature," Lucina spat, her voice shaking. "Was my mother not enough? Must you corrupt my brother, too?"  
  
"So you acknowledge him as your brother!" Anti-Marcus cackled, pushing Himself to His feet. "That's rich. And here I thought he was just a _traitor_ to you."  
  
"You're the traitor!" Lucina shot back. "You— you monster!"  
  
"Can't come up with anything better?" Anti-Marcus tutted, His arms out to His sides, shrugging in a way that made Lucina want to stab Him. No, she didn't just want to stab Him, she wanted to make Him suffer and bleed and beg for mercy as she dug her blade right into His very bones. She could feel her anger rising to foreign levels, and found herself too angry to really care.  
  
"Release my brother," Lucina growled. "Or I'll—"  
  
"You'll what?" Anti-Marcus cut her off, appearing in front of Lucina like lightning, far too close for her to do anything but stagger back. "You'll kill me? You'd kill your dear little brother in the process."  
  
"Like you made me kill my mother," Lucina seethed. _I hate you_ , she wanted to say, but something told her that'd be what Grima wanted.  
  
"Who, Rajni?" Anti-Marcus scoffed, jerking His head to Robin's body. "She was old. She was dying anyway. I'll give her points for surviving this long, but really, no mortal can handle my power. Clearly, though, young and healthy is the way to go!"  
  
Lucina grit her teeth, her hands white-knuckled beneath her gloves around Falchion's hilt. She wanted so badly to run Him through that it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming. Anti-Marcus cackled, brushing matted hair out of His face. Lucina could see the six eyes of Grima cut into Marcus's skin, though it was as if the cuts were new and clean, having not yet had the time to seep into his skin and crack it like crumbling stone as it had their mother.  
  
Anti-Marcus flexed His fingers, watching them move. He whistled appreciatively. "Clearly, young and healthy is the way to go, huh? I don't know why I didn't do this earlier. Little Marcus certainly had the stuff to handle my power. Plus, Exalted blood as well? Hoo, boy, I hit the jackpot!"  
  
He laughed, a sick cackle that made Lucina's skin crawl. "Marcus doesn't have Exalted blood," she forced herself to say. "Naga didn't choose him."  
  
"That's what you think!" Anti-Marcus sang gleefully. "And I suppose you also think you don't have any of my blood, too? If you just accepted your bloodline, your fate, I could've had you and kept this one as a backup. Pity, really. You never will now."  
  
 Lucina worked her jaw to respond, but found she couldn't. She couldn't remember ever feeling so afraid before— because she knew what He was going to say.  
  
"You know why, sis?" Anti-Marcus grinned, head tilted to the exact degree it made him look far beyond unhinged. "Come on, say why."  
  
Lucina did not say why.  
  
_"Because I'm going to fucking kill you all,"_ Anti-Marcus growled, all six eyes wide open and His fanged grin stretching from ear to ear. He held up a tome, obviously Marcus's Summoning tome, but the shadows of wings sprouting from her brother's back did not make it seem like He was going to summon waves of undead. Lucina could only stare, terror gripping her tight with the realization that _she had failed_.  
  
He held out a hand, blasting a ball of dark energy towards Lucina that cut a trench in the ground and would've blasted her to bits if she hadn't jumped out of the way. He shot again as soon as her feet touched the ground, and didn't seem wont to wait very long once the second blast faded.  
  
Lucina grit her teeth. "Up to the shrine," she ordered, turning her head to her team. "I'll hold Him down here. Go!"  
  
"You heard the Exalt," Kjelle barked, on her feet with Severa in her arms in seconds. "Move it! Move it!" (It was far from the right time, but something in Lucina buzzed happily when she was referred to as an Exalt. She wasn't sure why— she probably would never know.)  
  
Anti-Marcus scowled as He began to charge His next attack, advancing towards Lucina with steady footsteps. "How disgustingly noble," He commented. "Holding off the enemy so your team can escape. Do you think you're protecting them, somehow? You know they won't be able to do _jack-shit_ without you."  
  
She couldn't dodge this one. The spell hit her square in the chest, her ribs buzzing from the impact even through the steel of her breastplate and the thick fabric of her coat. She skidded backwards, her boots digging trenches in the dirty ground as she held Falchion like a lifeline, grinding her teeth as she stared at the creature that'd taken over her brother.  
  
"Can't imagine why you'd want to," Anti-Marcus said casually, recharging His spell as Lucina sucked in a breath. "I mean, you couldn't protect your little brother from the darkness that killed him. What makes you think you could protect your ragamuffin army?"  
  
"Marcus isn't dead," Lucina managed, breathing heavily as she stepped forward and swung her sword in a wide slash that wouldn't have hit a brick wall. "I know… I know I didn't protect him when I promised to. But he isn't dead!"  
  
"Oh, sure, he still breathes," Anti-Marcus shrugged, stepping aside. "But look at this body. You stopped thinking of him as your little brother when he showed the Mark."  
  
"That's a lie," Lucina growled. "You're a monster."  
  
Anti-Marcus was inches from her face in an instant. "So you admit it!" He cackled. "You still think your little brother is some creature beyond saving— you just said it!"  
  
"That isn't what I said!" Lucina protested, smacking Him away with the flat of her blade. "You're not my brother— I know my brother. I know he's still in there, somewhere. I know he can hear me right now, too."  
  
Anti-Marcus laughed, in a manner that was far too deliberate and unhinged for Lucina to be reassured at all. "It's funny how dumb you are! You really think we're two separate entities, Marcus and I? Please. He's been mine since I Marked him. I've gotten to know him pretty well in that time— and boy, am I glad you're not _my_ sister!"  
  
"That's ridiculous," Lucina sputtered. Anti-Marcus took her temporary surprise as an opportunity to blast her with a spell she ducked too slowly, that knocked her on her back in the dirt.  
  
He stalked over, tossing a ball of magic to Himself and staring coldly at her through six red eyes. It looked as if they'd replaced the space where her brother's eyes had been, cut raw and painful and bloody into the skin, except the blood glowed red and spread purplish veins through Marcus's skin. He was paler than she'd remembered, though he'd always been closer to their father's creamy complexion than their mother's deep, coppery brown.  
  
"Do you know what you did to your own little brother, Luce?" Anti-Marcus said cruelly. "Do you know why he accepted me so easily? It was your fault."  
  
"But I…" Lucina trailed off, realizing she couldn't argue. Of course it was her fault. She'd promised that she'd always look out for Marcus, even if he couldn't play catch with her and cried at the drop of a hat and was too rough with her training swords. Even if he was annoying and weird and embarrassing. She was the oldest, she had to remind herself. It was her responsibility. (Something she didn't have the self-knowledge to confront extended that to most of what she did— and in retrospect, that seemed sort of unhealthy.)  
  
"How many times did you watch him get pushed to the sidelines?" Anti-Marcus demanded, shooting a ball of magic at her. She rolled out of the way, holding her arm up to take the brunt of the impact. "How many times did people fawn over you— the older one, the perfect one, daddy's little girl— and only notice Marcus when they had to? How many friends did you make that only knew him as your kid brother?"  
  
Lucina wanted to protest, but everything he said struck like an arrow in her back, like blades stabbing themselves without mercy into the chinks in her armor. She couldn't respond— at that point, her arms felt too heavy to lift her armor. What did it matter? She had the sinking feeling in her stomach that she'd already failed, only confirmed by what Anti-Marcus said.  
  
"How many of your friends know him as a _traitor_ —" Anti-Marcus spat the word at her like it tasted bitter— "Because you told them he was on the side of Grima now? As if you expected him to fight for a side that only saw him as the side dish to _you!"_  
  
"And now, here we are," He growled, glaring at her with a tranquil rage scarier than anything Lucina had ever seen— and that was saying something. "You have Exalted blood, they say— blood of great heroes and warriors. Did they shove their siblings to the sidelines to get the glory, too? Don't make me laugh."  
  
Something he'd said earlier in the battle rang in her ears, right in line with what Naga had told her in her dream. Blood was blood, after all— and in the case of Lucina and her brother, it was something special.  
  
Lucina coughed, pulling herself back to her feet. "Actually," she managed. "That isn't entirely true."  
  
"Say it all you want," Anti-Marcus spat. "You're only fooling yourself, Lucina."  
  
"But I don't only have Exalted blood, Grima," Lucina continued. "You forget— I have Yours, too. You said Yourself, Marcus has Exalted blood. Why can't it be true the other way around?"  
  
"What?" Anti-Marcus sputtered.  
  
"I have Your blood, Grima," she said, her voice stronger than she'd expected. "Just as sure as Marcus has Naga's. We're quite an interesting mix, I've found."  
  
She felt her blood rushing in her veins, starting from the hollow between her collarbones and radiating outwards with power— a power that reminded her of all the injustice she'd faced, how much she'd suffered and sacrificed, and urged her to take back what the world had taken from her, starting with her brother.  
  
Anger surged with every beat of her heart, a blinding heat that glowed bright as the desert sun. Mana tingled in her fingertips as if Falchion were about to shoot lightning. She was aware of every movement within her being, from every racing emotion in her head to the pulsating rush of blood and energy through the tips of her toes. The edges of her vision blurred a brilliant red she'd never be able to describe, a red that settled itself into her mind as if it'd been there her whole life.  
  
Time seemed to freeze. For that moment, everything was perfectly clear.  
  
_You've been through much, child,_ the redness told her. _And yet you still fight._  
  
_What else would I do?_ Lucina answered. _I won't surrender. I promised my friends that we'd live to see the future we deserve._  
  
_Lesser creatures would have hardened,_ the redness noted. _But your heart is bared. You truly believe you can accomplish your goal._  
  
_I can,_ Lucina told it. _I refuse to be the pawn of a fate that wants to crush me. I'll create my own future, with my bare hands if I must. I won't submit to whatever powers have decided my friends and I deserve to suffer and die from the consequences of the decisions our forefathers made._  
  
_I couldn't have said it better Myself._ Lucina couldn't really tell, but she could swear the redness chuckled. For a moment, it sounded a little bit like her mother. _You fight against the injustice you face. You refuse to be stationary. You spit in the face of all those who would see you fall in line and stay true to your open heart regardless of what wounds it._  
  
Lucina felt herself swallow. _Yes._  
  
_You believe in your cause,_ the red continued. _For every time you're told no, you say yes twice as loud. Your anger fuels your hope and the strength you have to lift your sword. You wake up to fight another day despite wanting nothing more than to live a life of peace. You bare your spirit to whatever fate throws at it, and yet it does not lose its flame._  
  
_I promised,_ Lucina nodded. _I promised my family I wouldn't lose my hope, and I promised my friends that I would lead them to theirs._  
  
She thought she felt the red creature nod in approval. _You have My blood, tiny one_.  
  
_I know I do,_ Lucina agreed. _I am as much Fell blood as I am Exalted. But someone once told me it isn't a bad thing to have the blood of equal and opposite Beings._  
  
Lucina felt power surge through her, so potent it was almost painful. The world had stopped around her, Anti-Marcus frozen with an expression on His face halfway between sneering and complete shock.  
  
She felt her limbs tingle, aching to move once more, as the redness let itself fade. _Then go, my child,_ it told her. _Unleash hell._  
  
Time unfrose itself and Lucina's consciousness returned to the real world. She would learn later that, even viewed from behind, witnessing the process of actively embracing Fell blood was _pants-shittingly terrifying,_ as Marti put it. But she didn't dwell on it then, and hefted Falchion in her hands. Somehow, they felt surer— maybe it was because she felt stronger.  
  
"I told myself that I would come back for Marcus," she said, staring the Anti-Marcus down from just beneath the shaggy tangles of her cobalt hair. "I won't let You stop me from doing that."  
  
"Watch me," Anti-Marcus growled. "Who are you to stop a God? I AM THE ROT UPON THIS LAND. I AM RUIN AND DESPAIR."  
  
"You're my younger brother," Lucina replied, sheathing Falchion. "Marcus, please…"  
  
"Gods, you're an idiot," Marcus hissed— he sounded angry, but he sounded like himself. "Can't you see what I'm doing? I've been planning this for years! All so you and your friends could get, maybe, some chance to set things right."  
  
"And what about you?" Lucina retorted, running up and grabbing him by the shoulders. "Did you really think I'd leave you here with that thing?"  
  
"You didn't seem to have any trouble when He took over mother," Marcus mumbled, and Lucina swore she felt her heart break right then and there. "You can't understand what living with that monster was like. I didn't know i-if I'd see mother or Grima next. I don't know why h-he decided to take her, but… but I thought, I knew how to control him because I wouldn't submit so easily. I th-thought I'd be able to keep him under control long enough for you to perform the Awakening and go back to the past."  
  
"You dummy," Lucina choked out, pulling him into a hug. "I'll never leave you behind. Not as long as you're still my brother."  
  
Marcus pulled away, Summoning tome hanging listlessly by his side. "You don't understand."  
  
"Probably not," Lucina reasoned.  
  
"No, no, you really don't," Marcus insisted. "Listen. You know mom's ring, that she gave to you when we were kids?"  
  
"What about it?" Lucina prompted, her grip around Falchion's hilt tightening anxiously. He couldn't mean what she thought he meant. If there were ever a time Lucina prayed she were wrong, this would be it.  
  
Marcus smiled sadly. "Sis. I'm the panther, and you're the wolf. You know what I'm doing."  
  
It was as if the world had shattered into a thousand pieces at this revelation. It suddenly all made sense— back to that proverb on her mother's ring that Saria had spent so long wondering about. Saria wasn't the panther, but Lucina wasn't sure how much worse it was that her brother had taken that role.  
  
"Marcus, don't," she tried to say, taking a shaky voice. "Don't do this. You don't need to sacrifice anything."  
  
"I was a monster anyway!" he shouted, tears starting to drip down his face— a surreal reminder that despite everything, he was still a child. Lucina wanted nothing more than to scoop him into a hug like she used to when they were younger, like when they'd knocked over one of the suits of armor while playing in the main corridors. Marcus, all of four years old, had started sobbing so loudly they couldn't have snuck away if they'd tried, absolutely positive mother and father would hate them for it, no matter how much Lucina tried to console him. (It had been fine in the end, and Chrom had sent the suit to be repaired and reassembled, but Robin told them firmly there was to be no playing in the halls.)  
  
"I was always a monster," Marcus repeated shakily, stubbornly wiping tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Does it really matter to you if I spend my life keeping this one in check?"  
  
"Yes," Lucina said firmly. "Marcus, we both have Grima's blood."  
  
"Don't say that," Marcus tried to say.  
  
"I'll say it as often as I want," Lucina retorted. "Because I do! And you have Naga's blood."   
  
"Then where is She, huh?" Marcus demanded. "Why am I the one who has to deal with— with— whatever the hell this monster is? What does She have to say about that?"  
  
"I can't answer that," Lucina said honestly. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What the hell is the point of god-powers," Marcus said miserably, "If I can't even do anything but destroy with them? Let me do some good, dammit! I'm trying to help you!"  
  
"You won't do beans if you imprison yourself here!" Lucina shouted. "I won't let you!"  
  
 Marcus seethed with anger for a second, and then all of that went out like a candle flame pinched between two fingers, sinking to his knees. He mumbled something, dirty cobalt hair dangling over his pockmarked face, hands clenched under the heavy cuffs of his coat.  
  
Lucina crouched, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Marcus, I promised I wouldn't leave you behind. The future we're fighting for is for you, too. None of us asked for any of this to happen, including you. You deserve a second chance."  
  
Marcus was quiet. Lucina sat in front of him, as if waiting for him to say something, but she didn't really think he would. Not for the first time, she wondered if she'd ever really understand the depth of all he'd gone through in the past eight years— what had happened to make her little brother so scheming and twisted and broken inside. By all accounts, he should despise her, if he really did blame her for her inaction and his loneliness. And yet there he was, planning to sacrifice himself by spending eternity in a dead world as the mortal host of a demonic creature that could no longer be called Grima.  
  
"What do you miss most, Marcus?" Lucina found herself asking. "About our world."  
  
It took a minute for him to think. "That big tree in the castle garden," he finally said, lifting his head a fraction of an inch. "And that shelf of storybooks mother kept second from the bottom of the bookcase in her study, the one you tipped over trying to climb it because the nursemaid told you you couldn't."  
  
Lucina let herself chuckle. "Poor old Margaret. I don't think chasing after either of us was much good for her heart."  
  
"Yeah," Marcus agreed, a corner of his mouth rising just a little bit, though the little smile soon faded. "It seems like another lifetime, doesn't it?"  
  
Lucina nodded. "I know it's impossible to relive it, but… I've made a promise to our friends that I'd give them all another chance to live in peace, once we've prevented this future from ever occurring. You deserve that chance, too."  
  
"I hate to say it, but," Marcus chuckled bitterly, finally meeting her eyes. "Look at me. I've still got that _thing_ in my head, trashing it like it owns the place. I don't know what the hell it even is anymore. But you saw what it did to mother, Lucina. It'll do the same to me, and we'll be right back where we started."  
  
"That's not now, though," Lucina retorted, taking her brother by the shoulders. "Who knows how long that'll take? I don't care if maybe you could become a monster someday. Right here and right now, you're still my little brother and I'll be damned if I leave you alone for the rest of your life." She didn't care how desperate she was staring to sound— she was not going to lose her brother all over again.  
  
He tried to deny it, but Lucina shook him. "Don't you dare," she seethed. "This isn't an option! Damn it, Marcus, you didn't ask for this any more than the rest of us did. You deserve a second chance."  
  
It was the second time Marcus had watched someone try to fight through the brambles in his mind and drag him into the light by the ear if they needed to. He knew it couldn't have been easy. Marcus had, at this point, convinced himself he was beyond help. He had no desire to be yanked back up the road he'd gone down. That involved feeling things, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that. Feeling, he'd noticed, tended to hurt.  
  
But there was Lucina, trying to hack her way through and not caring a single bit about anything but her goal— disturbing his strange, dark, numb serenity in the most Lucina way possible. He was pretty sure that should cause him to feel something, but he couldn't quite put a finger on what.  
  
"Do you really want me?" he found himself asking, voice uncharacteristically small and shaky.  
  
"Of course I do," Lucina said firmly, lowering her head to look him in the face. "And not just me. There's Morgan, and Nah, and Owain, and several others who haven't even talked to you in years or haven't ever gotten the chance. It's a little hectic, but…" She shrugged. "It's a family, in its own way."  
  
Marcus felt tears start dripping down his cheeks again, and try as he might, he couldn't stop them. "W-well," he managed, combing a gloved hand through his messy hair. "I guess if I have to go insane and die keeping a crazy monster with god-powers in check, I'd better make the most of my last years, huh?"  
  
"And we _do_ need a tactician," Lucina added, pushing herself to her feet and offering a hand. "What do you say?"  
  
Marcus sat for a minute, looking up at his older sister once more. Her breath formed clouds in the cold mountain air, her brown cheeks chapped and her nose flushed. Her cheek was bruised and there was a nick on her forehead that'd clotted over and dried quickly enough she'd forgotten about it, and from her hair to the toes of her boots, she was all dirt-smudged leather and tarnished metal plates with their blue paint worn through around the edges. The Brand of the Exalt shone in her blue eyes as she held out her hand. She looked, to Marcus, exactly like everything an Exalt should be. Exactly like their father.  
  
But the determined smirk on her face wasn't their father's, and the way her eyes shimmered in a way that made it clear she was ready to defy everything trying to pin her down just because they tried at all wasn't their father's either. Marcus had seen that look on their mother, to her last breath— because mother never stopped fighting.  
  
Marcus took a breath, and then grabbed Lucina's hand. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah. Challenge our fate, and all that."  
  
"Fuck fate," Lucina agreed, her smirk stretching into a full-on grin. "I couldn't have said it better myself."  
  
She pulled Marcus to his feet. He could've let go then, but he didn't. _Maybe,_ he found himself thinking, _I could deserve a second chance._


	25. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I fail here, we're all as good as dead," Lucina breathed.
> 
> "Aye," Ke'tu agreed. "But you won't. Were you unworthy of surviving the ritual, we all would have perished long ago."

Naga's Shrine was built in such a way that, structurally, Marcus could appreciate it. It was all solid blocks of the finest white marble, right down to the stairsteps built into the side of the man-made hill that held the Table. In its prime, when clergy and scholars frequently made their way to the summit, Marcus was sure it was magnificent. Though it wasn't quite the same as the Divine Dragon grounds in Valm, the Shrine was structured to amplify Naga's natural magic that ran strong in the soil of Mount Prism. Ordinarly, that alone wouldn't have been enough to beat out, say, the Mila Tree for Naga's most sacred place on the planet— it was the belief in the energy at the Shrine to be sacred at all that gave it its strength. The human mind, it seemed, was a truly powerful thing.  
  
It wasn't quite so impressive now, with the shriveling of Naga's leylines and the general state of decay Naga's death brought about, but the energy was still there. Marcus felt centuries of belief and devotion keeping the magic alive, a spiritual strength that he felt resonating in a spot between his shoulderblades. Its steadiness felt reassuring somehow— as if it were telling him that no matter what, there would always be another day.  
  
The rest of Lucina's army did not seem to share this feeling. Apprehension hung heavy in the air like the alpine chill, an invisible fog that contaminated everyone's thoughts with doubt. Their moment of reckoning was not a battle, but instead came in the piercingly silent aftermath.  
  
Lucina had gathered Ke'tu and Marti in front of the Table. Technically she'd beckoned Marcus over there, too, but Marcus was perfectly content to lean against a pillar off to the side. The Fire Emblem, free from its rough cloth shroud, sat in the center. As Lucina secured a blue mask of hardened leather on her face, brushing loose strands of the hair she'd hacked off with a knife out of the way, Marti crossed her arms and looked right at Marcus, finally addressing him directly.  
  
"I don't know if I trust you," she remarked, which was fair. "But I do trust milord's word. If she says you're credible, I'm willing to believe it."   
  
Marcus shrugged and stepped forwards. "Loyalty to one's commander is a good quality to have. I guess my word that I'm not decieving any of you can only stretch so far."  
  
"Aye, but," Marti brought up. "I'm not a tactician. I don't participate in the strategy meetings. I don't know how shrewd your plan is, and I don't really care about it much except for the outcome. But one thing is bothering me about this— about all of this."  
  
Lucina frowned. "That's right, we still don't have the Gemstones."  
  
"And we can't perform the Awakening without them," Marti added. "The little one said you'd take care of it. If you ask me, 'twould be a pretty good time to do that now."  
  
By 'the little one,' she could only mean Morgan. Marcus felt a twinge of pride that Morgan had done her part so well. Morally, he didn't like the fact that he'd used her as a way to keep such an important secret this entire time, but it had to be done. He couldn't risk the secret getting out to anyone, not even Lucina.  
  
"Well, technically, I already have," Marcus shrugged. "Ask Morgan."  
  
Lucina furrowed her eyebrows behind the mask as the entire group glanced over to the tiny girl with Lucina's big coat around her shoulders, watching as Saria bandaged the scrapes on her chapped hands. It didn't sit well with her that Morgan, whom she practically thought of as her own child at this point, could play a larger role in their ordeal than what Lucina had originally thought. Marcus understood that sentiment. It was tempting to believe that Morgan was just another innocent victim of their circumstance, a child young enough that it seemed heinous to let their plight put her in harm's way. Tempting as it was, though, it just wasn't the truth.  
  
Though she was young, Morgan wasn't stupid. She understood that not everything in the world would work out the way she wanted it to, and that she shouldn't let other people tell her who she was or what to believe, and that even though people do good or bad things it doesn't necessarily make them good or bad people. All of that would seem obvious even at fourteen, but at eleven, there were a lot of things yet to be learned that made understanding those concepts more difficult than it would be later on in life. Marcus figured that was how growing up worked.  
  
Marcus caught her eye and cocked his head once to the side, silently calling her over. Although she looked puzzled, she stood once Saria was done and trotted over, pulling the heavy coat further over her little shoulders. Marcus figured that Morgan knew why— although he knew that she didn't necessarily know she knew.  
  
"Is something wrong?" she asked, looking to Lucina first. "Did I do something bad?"  
  
"No, of course not," Lucina assured her. "But we do need your help."  
  
That was the right thing to say. Morgan brightened considerably at the thought of being helpful, her shoulders straightening a little. "With what?"  
  
Lucina looked to Marcus, cuing Morgan to do the same. He cleared his throat and gave her a little grin.  
  
"So, Morgan," he began. "Do you still have your Talisman I gave you?"  
  
Morgan nodded and held up the pendant, dangling on its cord. "Right here!"  
  
"And how about the other thing?" he prompted. "The one I told you to keep secret? We need it now."  
  
Morgan furrowed her brow, thinking on what he meant for a second, and then it clicked. She nodded quickly, dropping the pendant and reaching into one of her pants pockets. Marcus felt himself swell with pride when she pulled out a little cloth bag tied off with string, the kind of bag that would hold candies or small change.  
  
She beamed to Marcus, and then lowered her head a little as she gave the bag to Lucina. "Sorry I kept it a secret so long," she said sheepishly. "I know it's important."  
  
Lucina pushed her mask up onto her forehead as she felt the weight of the little bag. She stared at it for a minute, her fingers hesitating to break the string, and looked back to Marcus. "This is…"  
  
"The Gemstones, yeah," Marcus confirmed. "I took 'em while Grima wasn't looking and hid them with Morgan."  
  
"You planned all of this," Lucina realized.  
  
"You're damn right I did!" Marcus said proudly. Granted, he hadn't planned on Lucina refusing to leave him behind, but he knew better than to mention that out loud. "But you can tell me how much of a genius I am later."  
  
He picked up the heavy shield. Taking the hint, Lucina snapped the string and emptied the little bag into her hand, the Gemstones shimmering with magic in the shade of Naga's Shrine. The white one, Argent, went first, fitting perfectly into the top cavity with a click. Then Azure went in, and then Vert, then Gules, and finally Sable. Lucina took it from him, pulling her mask back down and taking a breath.  
  
"So this is it," she said, her voice tight. "This is the moment of truth."  
  
"You remember the oath, right?" Marti asked. "Are you ready to say it?"  
  
Lucina nodded, though she looked more like she were about to vomit as she buckled her arm into the shield— because technically, it was a shield. "I feel sick."  
  
"It's just a little holy fire, milord," Marti shrugged, sitting on her knees on top of the Table. "You know how the Awakening works."  
  
Lucina nodded again, running a hand through her hair. Marcus couldn't recall ever seeing her look so nervous before— as far as he knew, Lucina didn't even _get_ nervous. Apparently, this was another story.  
  
"Milord," Ke'tu said, clearing his throat and marking the first time Marcus had heard him speak at all. "'Tis not you that Naga is judging. 'Tis the strength of your conviction. If Her chosen blood runs true in your veins, She will grant you Falchion's true power."  
  
"If I fail here, we're all as good as dead," Lucina breathed.  
  
"Aye," Ke'tu agreed. "But you won't. Were you unworthy of surviving the ritual, we all would have perished long ago."  
  
That seemed to make her feel better. Lucina nodded, straightening her shoulders and drawing Falchion from its sheath. The sound of the blade against its scabbard cut through the air of the Shrine like the sword itself, the rest of Lucina's army falling silent and watching with baited breath.  
  
Marti bowed her head, lilac-scaled hands clasped together as she knelt on top of the Table. For a second, everything was perfectly still, the air itself not daring to move.  
  
And then it began to hum with power, the clouded stones decorating the Table and the Shrine itself starting to glow a brilliant shade of blue. Encased in the glow, Marti's head lifted and her eyes opened wide, blank and glowing brighter than the stones. In all truth, it was a terrifying sight, but Lucina, determined as ever, did not waver.  
  
"Hear me, Marti!" she began, her voice clear and powerful in the air of the Shrine. "I bear proof of our sacred covenant!"  
  
She took in a breath. "In the name of the Exalted blood, I ask for the Divine Dragon's power! Baptize me in fire, that I may become Your true child!"  
  
As the words echoed around the Shrine, Marcus could only watch in a mixture of awe and terror as the blue glow spread itself through the veins in the marble, illuminating the rising particles of dust in the air. It spread to envelop Lucina as well, and though her face twisted in pain, she held steady until her eyes opened again, as if in surprise she was still alive.  
  
Marti spoke, though it sounded much less like Marti and more like someone much older, a voice that felt like it was coming from the depths of the Earth and from every star in the sky all at the same time. It could only have been Naga speaking.  
  
"Be welcome, Awakener," She said. "Your heart has been tested and deemed worthy. Cleansed in My fire, your desire has proven to be the stronger."  
  
Lucina took in a ragged breath. "Then You can send us back in time, right? We have to set right what went wrong!"  
  
Naga nodded slowly. "Yes. But know this: the future you save will not be yours. You will be outsiders, displaced in a time where you already exist."  
  
"I understand," Lucina said, gritting her teeth. "But… if we succeed, will we have peace?"  
  
"Should you succeed," Naga confirmed. "Know that you, and those you lead, now surrender your fates. For all intents and purposes, you will no longer exist."  
  
Lucina let that sink in. Naga was right— they could never save the world they'd been born into. They wouldn't be hailed as heroes for the war they had fought. Their families were not the same families that had died so the children could live another day. They had never wanted to be soldiers, but they'd carry the burden of war on shoulders far too small and no one would be able to see it but them.  
  
 "Yes," Lucina finally said. "I understand. But I did not lead my friends this far to deny them the chance for peace they deserve, and I will not lie complacent as our future rewrites itself. Even if I die seeing it through, I _will_ change our future!"  
  
Naga let out a chuckle. "Well said, My Foreseer. Falchion awakens for you— let its blade be the pen you use to write your own fate, and the blood of Exalts be the ink in which you write it."  
  
The glow grew to painful levels— bright enough that Marcus had to close his eyes. When they opened again, Marti had collapsed on the Table and Lucina had fallen to one knee on the floor, breathing heavily as she gripped Falchion's hilt. The blade glowed a faint golden color now, as if it'd been heated to be forged, and there was that same blue light gleaming in the hole towards the base of the blade.  
  
A gate had opened just behind the Table— though 'gate' was less than accurate. It was perfectly circular, bordered by a crystalline blue ring and a slowly-rotating golden ring of constellations. Its surface rippled a bluish-green like water, except the water was glowing and magical and glistened with light that it seemed to create on its own.  
  
It was magnificent. It was terrifying. It was what marked the end of their future.  
  
"The End Days are over," Lucina finally said, pulling herself to her feet and turning to face her army. "We leave them behind when we enter this gate."  
  
"And what happens next, commander?" Marcus ventured. "What do you see?"  
  
Lucina tilted her head. "Hope," she finally decided, nodding firmly.  
  
_Hope_. Marcus didn't know if he could admit it, but the word gave him strength. He marched through the portal with the rest of his elder sister's army, and thought, just for a minute, about the storybooks on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in his mother's study and a little boy that would spend hours on end poring through those pages and pretending he could make the stories real.


	26. Énouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Lucina had experienced this day, dread had felt like a cold, heavy weight in the pit of her stomach.

Lucina woke to hot summer sunlight in her eyes that morning. Her first thought was of what she may have for breakfast instead of what monsters she may face that day. Had she the cognitive ability to process that this early, she'd marvel at this fact.  
  
The timbered ceiling of the room shifted in and out of focus, morning sunlight streaming through the open window and making her eyes ache. Saria was tangled in the blanket with her, though that was far from unusual, and her head was tucked into Lucina's bare chest. Her form shifted a little, making the bed frame groan in protest, but she was still some distance from being awake. Lucina didn't blame her for wanting to sleep in— it was one of those sticky, hot days that did not foster much in the way of activity.  
  
Lucina had to smile a little, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her head, her fingers idly buried in Saria's wild hair. It'd grown down to brush her sun-darkened shoulders in the years they'd spent in that timeline, and though it was a little different to look at, Lucina kind of liked it. Saria didn't seem to mind the new length, anyway, and whether or not Saria liked it was what really mattered.  
  
She slowly disentagled her limbs from Saria's, deciding to let her sleep, and tucked the quilt back over Saria's shoulder. She stretched, her joints popping, and winced at the particularly painful one from her shoulder, reaching up to roll the joint as she padded over to her wardrobe. Ever since about '26 or so, Lucina could swear that particular shoulder was trouble. She couldn't say why, for certain.  
  
As she swung the door open, she ran a hand through her choppy locks of hair. She'd gotten rather attached to having it short— certainly it was less trouble that way— but she did admit she missed the length. Sentiment, and all. But practicality in her line of work demanded it short, so she kept her hair short.  
  
Her bangs brushed her eyes when she looked in the mirror, and she brushed them back with her comb despite the fact that they slithered back into place in seconds. Perhaps she ought to get Saria to trim it. Though the thought didn't stay long, because her reflection in the mirror caught her by surprise.  
  
She was _old_ , she discovered, as if aging were a new thing. She reached up and traced one of the lines on her face, permanent crinkles at the corners of her eyes, from the base of her nose to the ends of her mouth, just above her eyebrows. The lines under her eyes were not from lack of sleep, the ones in her cheeks not from undereating. They were shallow, but they were nonetheless present— present just as plainly as the strands of silver among the cobalt blue of her hair.  
  
That wouldn't have been enough to make her really pause and think, but then she realized what day it was. The sky was a smoky shade of whitish-gray around the horizon, the sun shining lethargically from behind gauzy clouds. The air was sticky and unpleasant to touch, and outside, it was a veritable party ground for mosquitoes and other hot-weather pests. A hot summer day in the middle of June, a day that simply felt bored and disgruntled as if it seeped from the pores of every minute that passed. A day Lucina would never be able to forget.  
  
It was the twelfth of June, the year 1430. In Castle Ylisse, there was a twelve-year-old princess that only wanted to make her parents proud swinging a wooden sword at a sandbag while her brother and cousin ate frozen strawberries beneath the huge old tree in the courtyard. Perhaps the Shepherds were marching home that day, but Lucina didn't know— she was miles from Ylisstol, by her own design. She didn't see the point in influencing her younger self at all.  
  
The first time Lucina had experienced this day, dread had felt like a cold, heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. The Shepherds had been marching home, but she hadn't felt like celebrating, and then the army had returned with grief hanging over them in a thick cloud. It was the day her world had ended— twelve years old and the foundation of everything she'd ever known had been shaken beyond repair.  
  
But now, she felt none of that. Life in the little port city she now called home went on as usual outside her window. Ocean waves sloshed at the barnacle-encrusted posts of the docks and horses pulling carts clopped by on the cobblestoned streets, bound for the marketplace. The clock tower in the center of town struck nine in the morning, signaling that someone had remembered to wake the bellkeep. The clanging of a hammer to an anvil rang through the air, bouncing off timbered walls and stone paving. A pegasus courier soared through the sky overhead and landed just a dozen yards away behind the fence of the post office, and left a minute later with a new package to deliver. Just outside the window, a group of boys about nine years old chased after one of their friends on a creaky scooter, on which they'd evidently forgotten to put brakes. The smells of baking bread and freshly-caught fish wafted through the air. From the tavern a few buildings away, someone played a jaunty song on an out-of-tune piano.  
  
From inside the house, the floorboards creaked with the telltale squeaks that came from little footsteps up and about on a day simply too open to waste lying around in bed, coupled with one set that wasn't so little anymore. Muffled voices matching the footsteps came from behind the door, undoubtedly shushed so as to _not wake up mother and father, it's a special day for them you know_ , though the years had allowed Lucina to learn that she didn't have to sleep lightly anymore. Saria still lingered in slumber in the bed, though undoubtedly she'd wake up soon, feeling the bedsheets empty where Lucina had once been. It was two months past their eleventh wedding anniversary, and the decorative blades they had exchanged still hung proudly on the kitchen wall, where the children all knew not to touch.  
  
It was the twelfth of June, 1430. Lucina was thirty-five years old and that day was not the end of the world.  
  
She almost let out a laugh, pushing her fingers through her hair and resting her forehead on her palm, and tears started dripping down her cheeks without her realizing it. It was just so _funny_ , she realized— it'd been twenty-three years and she still wasn't used to the idea of getting older. Thirty-five would've seemed ancient when she'd become the unofficial Exalt of Ylisse at seventeen. At some level, since her father died and things began to change, Lucina had woken up each day fully expecting it to be her last. She had not expected to make it to eighteen, nor twenty, nor twenty-four, nor thirty-one.  
  
And yet, there she was! She looked back in the mirror, not bothering to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, and found a breathless smile on her face that made the lines at the corners of her eyes deepen. It was the twelfth of June and she had lived and breathed through thirty-five years of a life that she hadn't asked for, and here she was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders that had borne burdens too heavy from ages too young, standing and breathing and _alive_ as if an entirely new world had just been born before her eyes.  
  
She crouched next to Saria and tapped her cheek, wiping her dripping eyes on her forearm. "Saria," she said, choking out a breathless laugh. "Saria, wake up."  
  
Saria grumbled something, but opened her sightless eyes. The lines on her brows deepened when she frowned at Lucina, unhappy with being woken so soon. There was silver in her hair, too, Lucina was delighted to see, a messy shock of it just above her left temple. Absolutely gorgeous.  
  
"What's wrong?" Saria mumbled. "Did Pepper get into the flour again?"  
  
"No, no, nothing like that," Lucina insisted. "Saria, it's the twelfth."  
  
It took a minute. Then it sunk in, and her face broke into a grin. "Gods, we're so old."  
  
"We're an old married couple," Lucina agreed, finally letting out a laugh and kissing her cheek. "With our own house and a herd of kids."  
  
Saria nodded, pulling Lucina into a hug. "It's perfect, isn't it?"  
  
Lucina let out a happy sigh. "As perfect as it could ever be."  
  
"And what's that blessed eye of yours see, princess?" Saria asked, tracing Lucina's cheek with her hand.  
  
"Oh, gods, Saria," Lucina laughed, burying her face in Saria's unruly scarlet hair. "I see so much, I can hardly believe— Saria, I see the whole world."  
  
"And what's in it?" Saria asked.  
  
"You," Lucina answered, smiling into her hair. "And me, and Morgan, and the children, and all of our friends, and the Shepherds and all their children that never made it in our time. I see the whole world, and I see… I see that it begins today."

**Author's Note:**

> And that, everyone, is the end of this.
> 
> Congratulations! You've read all the way through.
> 
> I'm a little disappointed this didn't get as much feedback as I thought, but. Whatever.
> 
> I did it, you know?
> 
> (Hahahaha but fuck it i'll never be done with this god damn AU buckle up for a PREQUEL HELL YEAAAAAAH)


End file.
